Closing Time
by MistressInk
Summary: Life's been hard on Beth recently, but she finds solace one night on the top of a pool table. She never could've imagined salvation would appear in the form of the dirty redneck, Daryl Dixon.
1. A Little Trip to Heaven

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Walking Dead franchise. Any recognizable characters/locations from the series do not belong to me. Author's Note: So, after discovering the joy of Bethyl, I decided to try my hand at a fanfic of my own. I'm not sure yet if this will be a one-shot or not. I want to thank bethgreenesgirlgang (or Schwoozie) for her sage smut writing advice on Tumblr, as I've never written anything like this before. Also, this is unbetaed and while I've edited it myself over a dozen times, I'm sure I missed something. So, feel free to point out any mistakes you find. Enjoy!**

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"Maggie, will you just go already! I can close up for tonight, ok? I've watched you do it a hundred times. Everything will be fine!"

Maggie was still trepidatious about letting her eighteen year old sister close up the bar for her. She could only imagine what their daddy would say about the matter. Too much could go wrong, and it made no difference how responsible Beth was. But on the other hand poor Glenn was sore and bloody from the recent beating he'd taken, and Maggie knew he couldn't drive himself to the hospital in his condition. So, she let Beth talk her into leaving behind the key, despite her nagging uneasiness about doing so.

"Alright then, but you lock this door as soon as I'm gone!" she orders, helping her wobbly boyfriend to stand. "And you do not open it for anyone!"

Beth nods her head dutifully, and follows them to the front.

"Keep your phone on you at all times. I want you to call me when you're leaving and again to tell me you made it home safe." Keeping a tight hold of Glenn's arm, Maggie pauses at the door to glance back over her shoulder. "You've got your pepper spray, right?"

Beth refrains from rolling her eyes. Linden County isn't exactly a hotbed of dangerous or immoral activity. The fight Glenn had gotten into tonight was the first to take place in Hatlin's Bar in years, and it had been some redneck drifter to start it. Nevertheless, she nods reassuringly and shoos them away. She pointedly locks the door for Maggie's peace of mind, and watches Glenn be escorted to her sister's car.

Alone at last, Beth shrugs off her knitted grey cardigan and releases a heavy sigh. Though she feels bad for Glenn getting his ass kicked, there's a part of her equally thankful to finally be trusted alone like the adult she is. She knows Maggie means well, but Beth can't help but feel that her sister sometimes forgets that she no longer requires a babysitter. Truthfully, she'd been reluctant to come out tonight, but Maggie and Glenn had ganged up on her, insisting that she needed to have some "fun". Beth knows they were only trying to keep her occupied, so as to keep any more thin scars from being etched into her skin. But she's well past that now. Or at least she wants to be. It's particularly hard to put herself back together when everybody keeps treating her like some fragile china doll that will shatter again at any given moment.

She goes about the regular closing duties she'd helped her sister do many times before, finishing with mopping the floors. Typically closing up the bar isn't any grand task when everyone pitches in, but with Maggie gone and Carol taking off early to tend to her still healing wrist, it's a lot for Beth to handle on her own. Not that she particularly minds. She likes feeling useful. While she's technically underage, the owner Dale is a family friend, and has never objected when she hangs around to help out. In fact, he's often winked and given her money for the jukebox before leaving. Thinking of which, Beth had just the song in mind for tonight.

She turns off most of the lights, not wanting to draw attention to life still inside the bar at such a late hour. She _had_ promised Maggie she'd be careful, after all. Wringing out the mop, Beth starts working her way across the room, her low ponytail swishing with each push of the mop. Preoccupied with what she's doing, she doesn't notice the intruder until they come face to face across the billiards table. She shrieks and drops the mop, which clatters to the floor noisily.

"Fuck, girl," he says in a gruff voice.

Though the dirty looking man is somewhat intimidating in his stature, he appears to be more startled than she is. In worn jeans, a flannel shirt and a leather biker's vest, he shifts from foot to foot uneasily. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands and he's peering at her with dark, wary eyes.

"How'd you get in?" she squeaks, inching backwards. "I locked the door."

He ignores her question. "Won't hurt you," he grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.

It takes her a minute to recognize him. His shoulders are slumped and he ducks his head to avoid meeting her gaze directly, but she remembers his face from an hour ago when it was a wrathful shade of red. While he's considerably less angry now, and his stance isn't nearly as menacing, a part of her is still tempted to reach for her pepper spray. He moves behind the bar with slow, careful steps, conscious of her eyes on him.

"We're closed," she reminds him, assuming that a drink's what he's after.

"S'fine," he spits back. "Don't like the frou-frou piss y'all are selling anyway."

She puts her hands on her hips and frowns impatiently. "What d'you want then?"

"Chinaman took my keys." He chews his bottom lip while he searches.

"He's Korean," she corrects automatically.

He's pacing back and forth now, harried. "Whatever. You seen'em?"

"So, is that why you bashed his ribs in?"

He finally looks her in the eye, but it's only to glare at her with hostility. "Aint none of your concern."

Antagonizing the man she'd watched beat Glenn into a bloody pulp was probably unwise, but Beth hasn't the tolerance for him required in order to censor herself. She squares her shoulders and juts her chin out stubbornly. "If you want your keys, it is."

He barks at her then, almost making her jump. "Douchebag wouldn't get out of my face, that's why!"

"Like that's a reason to go beating the shit outta him? He was only trying to keep you from driving home drunk," she scolds, as if he were a child. "And now you break in, after sending him to the hospital, and start acting like a jackass! Didn't your mother teach you any better?"

By the time she runs out of steam, he's staring at her with a look in his eyes she doesn't quite know how to characterize. He's clearly not happy with her; his nostrils are flaring and he's gritting his teeth, but at the very least, she's pretty sure he's not going to fly off the handle again. This lack of response is pointed—he's not going to argue with her, but nor will he admit he was in the wrong. So, he becomes stagnant, and just keeps staring. She tries to meet his stormy gaze, but soon learns she's no match for him. His dark eyes don't just look at her, they look through her. She feels like she's being measured, sized up for something.

Ultimately blinking first, she casts her eyes to the floor, unnerved and annoyed as hell that he'd been able to crack her with such little effort. Why does it seem like everything is able to break her these days? Obviously, she's not just small and delicate solely in appearance. The world has deemed her a meek lamb, and that's exactly what she is—the proof's there on her wrist.

Her anger shifts, turning inwards at this loathsome truth. Her arms wrap around her middle in an unconscious effort to try and hold herself together, as she distractedly blinks back tears and swallows the lump forming in her throat. It would be beyond mortifying to start blubbering about her problems in front of this stranger who's _still_ looking at her. Timid under his scrutiny, she bends over to pick up the mop and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she does so.

"Try looking in the tip jar," she suggests, her words weighed down by a tired sigh.

He finally looks away from her, and if possible, she feels ten pounds lighter. She lowers her head, pretending to concentrate on mopping, but her eyes discreetly follow his movement. He locates the tip jar hidden underneath the bar, which does indeed contain his keys, and fishes them out. She notices to his credit that he doesn't pocket any of Maggie's tips, but had he tried, it's not as if Beth could really stop him.

For a moment she debates talking him out of driving, but he doesn't seem drunk to her. Quite the opposite, he's entirely too sober seeming—despondent, even. Maybe Glenn doesn't recognize what despair looks like, but she does. She's seen it in the mirror more times than she would care to recall. He walks out from behind the bar, intending to leave without another word. Her stomach suddenly drops and it's a bewildering disappointment that prompts her to stop him.

"Um?" He halts, waiting for her speak, but doesn't turn to face her. Her question escapes her mouth as she exhales, making it sound breathy. "D'you maybe wanna talk about it?"

"What?"

"Whatever's put you in this charming mood?"

"Nah, thanks, I'm good." He makes to leave again, but before he can reach the door he hears her call out in a small voice.

"Please stay?"

He looks at her again with that powerful stare, and it makes her want to shrink back again. "Why?" he asks, just as confused by her request as she is.

She feels a flustered blush rising in her cheeks. "I don't need a chaperone or anything, but I would like some company."

That's only half of the truth, however. She specifically wants his company, strange as it may seem when only minutes ago she'd been anxious for him to leave. But now she's seeing him in a new light, as a lifeline instead of a nuisance. And unlike Maggie and Glenn, his presence isn't overbearing. Granted he doesn't say much or anything that could be construed as friendly, but from the way he's folded in on himself with that pensive look, she knows he's hurting too. He looks exactly on the outside how she's feeling on the inside, and for that reason there's an odd sort of comfort in his just being there.

Misery really does love company.

He nods only once, but his affirmation is distinct enough for relief to settle over her. He removes his leather vest and leaves it on a nearby table along with his keys. The guarded expression he's wearing makes Beth wonder if he isn't just as unsettled by her, as she is by him. This thought bolsters her confidence, and keeps her from recoiling when he draws closer. He gestures to the mop hesitantly, as if she's going to whack him with it. "Give it here."

Surprised by the offer, she hands it to him without pause, and watches him get to work. Uncertain of what else to do with herself, she digs around in her pocket for the money Dale left her and approaches the jukebox. "Mind if I play something?"

He grunts noncommittally, and she inserts her money into the slot. Pressing the correct buttons, the room soon fills with the warm, gritty sound of Tom Waits singing "Hold On"—a personal favourite of hers.

"What's this crap?" he asks, drawing her attention.

She smiles, startled but authentic, for what feels like the first time in days. "This is _Tom Waits_. Have a little respect!"

He snorts at this and goes back to where he's paused in his mopping, but she can see him fighting back the beginnings of a grin. Something inside her flip-flops and she forces herself to look away before he can catch her gawking. Toeing off her sneakers so as not to trek anything across the newly cleaned floor, she goes to wipe down the bar again just for the sake of keeping busy. She slowly sways side to side, her body naturally succumbing to the music. Every so often her eyes flit over to the man.

"You know, if you wanted to talk about what happened, I wouldn't mind," she says, when the silence between them inevitably becomes too stifling.

"There's nothing to tell," he says, shrugging.

She raises an eyebrow, dubiously. "Glenn's face says differently."

"You don't even know me, Tinkerbell," he reminds her brusquely.

She snorts at the nickname. "My name's Beth," she offers, wryly.

"Beth? Anyone ever tell you you're nosy?" he admonishes.

"Sorry," she says awkwardly and finishes wiping down the bar. "I was just thinking that there are only some things you can tell to a stranger."

"Why d'you care?"

She restlessly plays with the bar rag in her hands. "It might make you feel better."

He guffaws. "I doubt it."

She rolls her eyes and whips the rag down onto the bar, defeated. "Fine," she says. "You win."

Beth turns her back to him, feeling foolish for having bothered. Just because she sees something similar between them, doesn't mean they automatically have this epic bond. She follows his example and becomes quiet, abandoning the fanciful notion of camaraderie. She tries to lose herself in Tom Waits just as she's done a hundred times in the privacy of her bedroom, but the soapy water sloshing inside of the bucket distracts her. Unable to ignore him completely, she listens as he wrings out the excess water from the mop, letting the noise drown out the music for a moment.

He eventually huffs a frustrated sigh, seeming annoyed with her silence despite having all but asked for it. "My brother bailed on me today."

She whirls around to face him, so surprised when he speaks that it takes a second for his words to seep in. When they do, she's taken aback once more. She debates back and forth whether or not he would appreciate her saying something, but he unexpectedly keeps talking.

"Normally it aint such a big deal, but…today's the anniversary of my mom's death. Me and Merle was s'posed to visit her grave—or what would've been her grave if there'd been a body to bury."

"Oh." Her response is terribly feeble, but she honestly can't think of anything better to say. When Shaun had died and then her mom, all anybody could say in condolence was "I'm sorry". She'd heard it so many times that she'd come to hate the hollow, useless phrase. In fact, she refuses to repeat it to him now, even though its ironically the first thing that springs to mind.

He continues mopping, and ducks his head again to avoid any pitying looks she might send his way. "Whatever, I was just a kid when it happened."

"She was your mom." There's no pity in her expression, only empathy. "Mine only passed away last year and I don't think I'll ever be over it."

He says nothing, unsurprisingly, but his expression softens. She abandons the bar and moves to stand closer to him, though still distanced enough so he isn't made uncomfortable.

"How'd it happen?" he asks.

"Cancer. Yours?"

"Fire."

He finishes mopping and leaves it propped up against the nearby post. She watches him sit atop the pool table with agile grace. He's almost catlike; standoffish and watchful to the point of extremity, as if she'll trounce him if he takes his eyes off her for even a second. He has heavy bags under his eyes, suggesting a lifetime of weariness. He's unshaven, and his dark hair is unwashed and badly needs cut. Altogether, he's pretty grimy looking. Yet, he's possibly the most attractive man Beth's ever clapped eyes on, a fact she's all too aware of now that they're in close proximity. Without her consent, her eyes go to his mouth, admiring the way his lips form the few words he speaks—though she abruptly realizes she's not actually listening to him.

"What?"

He repeats himself, not showing whether he knows the direction of her thoughts or not. "How you feeling now?"

She realizes that he's been studying her too, and is now eying the scar on her wrist. She instinctively moves to hide it, but stops. He's not judging her, as far as she can tell. In fact, she would swear that there's a look of recognition on his face. The tone of the question seems to imply that he knows why she'd done it. As tough a man as he seems, he's no stranger to loss, which makes her wonder if he knows firsthand what it's like to be permanently marred by it—if he's scarred like she is.

"Right now, I'm pissed off more than anything." It's a little more honest than she intended to be, but she doesn't buy it back. She trusts that he'll understand. "At myself for having been such a coward. And at my family and the rest of the world for never letting me forget it."

The music's stopped she realizes, though she's not exactly sure how long ago the song ended. The quiet somehow makes her feel all the more vulnerable and thus her words become more significant, more secretive, when she softens her voice.

"And all I wanna do is forget." She steps closer to him and places a tentative hand on his knee, a pleading look in her eye. If he believes it's possible, then maybe she can too. "I wanna change, you know? Be someone else. Be better—stronger."

He considers her a moment, glancing down at her hand on his knee and then peering up at her from under his long eyelashes. "What if we can't?"

"You can. We both can. We've both gotta," she insists, because she's not the only one that needs to hear this now. "Cuz the hits won't stop coming…and I don't know about you I bruise like a peach."

He huffs a small laugh at the stupid joke, which in a peculiar way makes her feel a lot less silly for being so open.

"I'm sorry for laying all this on you," she says, fighting back the tears that are threatening to rise to the surface. She cries far too much these days as it is.

"There are some things you can only say to a stranger," he repeats.

"Well, thanks for listening, mystery man."

There's a pregnant pause before he speaks again, as if he's giving whatever he's about to say extra consideration. "Daryl," he introduces.

The upturn of her lips feels like the most natural thing in the world. "It's nice to meet you, Daryl."

She's still touching him, a fact they're both very conscious of. The tips of his ears are reddening, his hands twitch, and it's all too clear that he doesn't know how to react. She doesn't want to stop touching him, the physical connection stirs something inside her she thought long since gone—excitement. It's so faint that it's barely there at all, but after months of nothing, it's enough to remind her that she's not dead. But he's uncomfortable, and that's more important. She lightly squeezes his knee, ready to pull away when he places his own hand over hers, keeping it there.

"I liked that song," he admits, in a low voice.

It's a revelation, one that almost brings her to her knees. _She's not alone. _There _is _camaraderie between them.

She leans forward, not even realizing what she's doing until her lips touch his. She nearly gasps from the warmth that rapidly spreads throughout her body. The kiss itself is gentle, but by no means timid. She knows exactly what she's asking for with the soft brush of her lips, and that conviction must somehow inspire his own certainty, because he sparks to life. His whiskers rasp against her chin and his tongue slides against hers, tasting of smoke and alcohol. Her hands, one now braced against his shoulder and the other tangled in the ends of his hair, pull him closer to deepen the kiss. He groans low in his throat, and it rumbles through her, making her insides clench with anticipation. She loves that sound and the emboldening power it lends her. Digging her fingers into his shirt, she moves to stand between his legs.

She's never been kissed like this before—like a woman. Jimmy, bless his heart, had been a boy awkwardly fumbling through sex, and always touching her with unsure hands. She'd never felt inspired enough to take the lead with him, but with Daryl she doesn't seem to have the same problem. His hands run down her waist to grip her ass, and pull her forward so that she's pressed against him tightly. A small whimper escapes her and she's scrambling to lever herself up and press harder against his mouth. She doesn't know precisely how long they stay there, kissing with this level of urgency, but when he pulls away to pant harshly against her mouth, she knows it wasn't enough. He starts to nudge her backwards—so he can stand up she realizes, relieved. She doesn't want her moment with him to end quite yet, not when there's still so much to be shared.

When he's fully erect—no pun, intended—she lets him guide her up onto the edge of the pool table. His hooded eyes are heated, and the way he looks at her makes her burn. Beth may have been the one to start this, but Daryl is swiftly taking control of things. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and lightly brushes her nose along his jaw. Leaving soft kisses there, she memorizes his scent of motor oil, smoke and pine—all the things men like him should smell like, she supposes. Yet, when he lays her back on the green felt of the pool table, she can't help but think that "men like him" wouldn't know how to be so reverently gentle with a woman. She wonders if this impassioned tenderness is unique to only him.

Only Daryl.

Scooting back further along the tabletop, giving him room to awkwardly climb up and drape his weight across her, she watches his graceless movements with a growing fondness.

"What?" he says, seeing the amused look she's donned. He shifts away from where he'd been nibbling her ear in order to search her face.

Beth smothers a giggle, not wanting to chance offending him, and offers a coy smile. After a moment his brow unfurrows and he returns it shyly. The sadness that clouded his features earlier has slipped away, and this smile he wears—small as it is—emanates such sincerity that it tugs at her heartstrings. Daryl, in spite of his unrelenting stare, has never looked at her with pity or worry; to him she is fully formed and he wants what he sees. Another swell of longing for this man crashes over her, and biting her lip, she settles her hands determinedly on his hips. He lets her guide him until they're slotted intimately together, the hardness beneath his jeans pressing into her clothed heat. His lips find hers and she's caught up in another needy kiss.

She lifts her hips to follow his subtle rocking, and tears her mouth away from his to let out a startled moan at the delicious sensation it causes. He's back to chewing lightly on her earlobe, and it's all too much, but not quite enough and—oh God, she needs more. Her fingertips skim softly along the skin above the top of his jeans, and he inhales sharply through his nose when he realizes she's reaching for his belt. She undoes the buckle and his fly with deft, piano-playing fingers and then, feeling particularly daring, reaches her hand down under the waist band of his boxers to brush her fingers against his now straining cock. He breathlessly takes the Lord's name in vain and arches his back, pressing further into her grasp. His eyes are clenched shut and his face looks pained, as if she's using pleasure to torture him for information.

The wide solid expanse of his body is stretched out over her. She buries her face against his neck and presses wet, sticky kisses there. She feels his Adam's apple bob with each thick swallow, his burly shoulders shudder and his cock twitch with each light stroke she gives it. When her thumb grazes the tip, he grabs her wrist tightly, stopping her.

"Too much," he mumbles an unnecessary explanation. "It's been too long."

She nuzzles at his throat and withdraws her hand.

He doesn't hesitate to help her shed her green t-shirt. She wishes for a moment that she'd worn nicer underwear, but the plain, white cotton bra she's wearing doesn't appear to deter Daryl. He tugs the straps down her shoulders, kissing along her collarbone. She arches her back off the table so he can reach around and unhook the clasp. When she's finally free of it, his eyes devour her hungrily. His breath is hot and moist against her skin, and she shivers with anticipation. Her pink nipples are puckered and sensitive, waiting for some kind of attention. A tiny sigh escapes her as his rough palms brush across them when his large hands cup her small breasts.

Eventually his lips capture a nipple, and she's tangles her fingers in his hair, yanking in time with each swirl of his tongue. He switches between them, suckling at her breasts like he can't get enough of her taste. Her eyes flutter and her stomach clenches from the sensation of his scruff against her pale skin.

"Please," she begs, not quite sure what for. He seems to understand though, because he undoes her pants and slides them off, unhindered thanks to her lack of sneakers.

She loves his rough hands, the nails bitten down to nubs and his knuckles bloodied from his altercation with Glenn. They're the hands of a man, a labourer—nothing like Jimmy's, who has never seen a hard day's work in his life. Daryl's hand slips beneath her panties and strokes where she's hot and aching. He drags a fingertip against the hood of her clit a few times, and that's all it takes to make her dripping wet. She gnaws on her bottom lip, groaning when one of those thick fingers enters her. He spends the next few minutes leisurely fucking her, tweaking her clit every so often and grinding against her hip. Her head falls back and she stares helplessly up at the light fixture hanging above them. They're on top of the pool table, and it briefly occurs to her that they were on display for anyone who came walking in. She's no longer sure if she relocked the door after Daryl broke in, but she can't bring herself to really care. The outside world has no place between them now, not when his fingers are reaching deeper inside her, curling up perfectly—and she's just on the verge of cumming, at which point he withdraws carefully, leaving her a trembling mess.

"Oh, fuck!" she sobs, grasping at his biceps.

"Lift your hips," he instructs.

She braces her feet against the tabletop's green felt and does as she's told. She watches in rapt fascination as he slips her panties off, his hands brushing down her legs. When they're off, and she's lain back completely bare except for her socks, he meets her eye again. Something significant passes between them, but she couldn't put a name to it if she tried. His expression is clouded by something raw and fathomless. She wishes futilely that she could know what he was thinking in that exact moment, but in the span of seconds it's too late to ask because he's kissing her again. It's desperate and borders on violent, but she doesn't want to pull away. This is bliss—freedom. After everything with Shaun, her mother, Jimmy and her flirtation with suicide…she needs this, they both do; an escape from the shit storm.

He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, fishing out a condom. Glad at least one of them is thinking clearly, she watches him tear the foil wrapper open with his teeth. She eagerly helps him shove down his jeans and boxers, and then braces herself up on her elbows so that her sweaty chest is pressed against his still clothed one. He looks at her as he's rolls on the condom. She's never considered herself much to look at—Maggie had always been the prettier one—but his gaze is admiring, and it makes her heart soar.

"You done this before?" he asks, smoothing back sweaty strands of hair from her face.

She nods her head, and lightly scraping her nails along his sparse treasure trail, watching his belly tense. "It's a bit late to start reading the warning label, isn't it?"

Another smile pulls at his lips, and she feels thrilled by it once more. However, it disappears when she starts lifting his shirt. He yanks it back down anxiously, and Beth removes her hand, sensing his sudden discomfort. He hunches over then, his frame looming above her, and he teases her entrance with his cock, forcing a strangled whimper from her. Any curiosity regarding his reluctance to be shirtless goes flying out the proverbial window.

"You sassin' me, girl?" he growls in that deep timber of his, causing a fresh wave of arousal to flood her nethers.

Even delirious from lust, Beth manages to don smirk and raise a challenging eyebrow. "No, sir," she snarks.

He rests his forehead against her shoulder. "Smart ass," he huffs out against her flushed skin.

She takes a gasping breath when the tip of his cock enters her. He reaches around with the hand he'd used to guide himself in, and grabs a handful of her ass, pulling her closer to seat himself even deeper inside. Her cunt squeezes snugly around his length, wrenching an animalistic grunt from him.

The unrestrained pleasure she feels sends her reeling. The roof could have caved in and Beth isn't sure she would've noticed when he feels this good. Her back arches and her legs wind around his hips in a silent plea for him to keep going. She can't speak, can't beg him not to stop, and for an instant she even forgets how to breathe. She didn't know it could be like this—like having electricity coursing through her veins. She feels more alive with every firm thrust inside her—every sharp snap of his hips a summons to ecstasy. He moves a hand from where it's gripping her ass to rub at her clit with the pads of his fingers, coaxing her that much closer to climax. Her body jerks uncontrollably, and a needy, high-pitched whine is torn from her throat.

"Feel good?" he asks, amidst another beautiful ragged moan.

"Yeah, yes," she murmurs feverishly. The heels of her feet dig into him, spurring him on.

His thrusts quicken to a punishing pace, and she instinctually reaches down to clutch at his ass hard enough to leave bruises. His jeans are slipping further down his thighs, and his hair is hanging in his face. With the hand that's currently clutching at her breast, she reaches up to brush the lank strands away. Jaw clenched and brow creased, his earlier gentleness has diminished, and in its place is desperation for release—to feel the intensity of something other than the crushing loneliness this day has brought. She yanks him down and assaults him with a biting kiss.

The squelching sound of their coupling would be loud and obnoxious at any other time, but right now its music to her ears. He doesn't cease pounding into her as he shifts his weight onto his other knee, and that slightest change in angle has her keening. The pressure of his cock inside her, together with the stimulation on her clit, is driving her over the edge.

"I'm gonna…I'm close," she whispers urgently.

And God, he's fucking her faster—_harder_—and soon she's awash in the tremendous tide of bliss. She's seeing explosions of light, and her body's wracked with shudders. It's like every molecule of her body is being pulled apart then slammed back together in a glorious rebirth. Her jaw drops open but she's silent as she cums, scream caught in her throat, choking her. Her pleasure is tapers off as his is arrives; he pumps into her madly a few more times before he spills himself into the condom, grunting from exertion and release. She shuts her eyes, fighting back the hot tears she can feel gathering. It's overwhelming—the best she's felt in what seems like forever. When she's settling down from her magnificent high, she opens her eyes just in time to see the rapturous agony on his face be replaced with a look fleeting peace.

It's over all too soon. He pulls out of her, and she grimaces uncomfortably at the loss of him. This interlude was not born from love or the like, but its pleasurable end ushers in a sense of loss. He's removing the condom, tying it off and dropping it into one of the side pockets carelessly. With hurried movements, he pulls up his pants and redoes his fly. He appears almost panicked, and can't seem to get away from her fast enough. He finishes buckling up his belt and starts to climb down from the table. Knowing that as soon as his feet touch the floor, every harsh reality in her life will come flooding back, she almost stops him. But she's too late. She winces at how loud his boots seem to thud against the hardwood as he stands.

He pauses a moment, searching for something to say. He's yet to really look at her, and she tries very hard not to take it personally. She'd welcome that penetrating stare now, endure his gaze for however long, but his eyes still avoid her. She sits up and stretches her legs out in front of her, the muscles sore from having been so tensed during their coupling. His hands, the ones that had brought her so much pleasure only recently, clench and unclench nervously at his sides. Still unable to speak his mind, he turns and strides away, swiping up his keys as he goes.

"Daryl?"

He falters for but a moment, and continues out the door without even a parting glance. A split second passes after his exit, and she scrambles to get dressed before her humiliation can deepen.

In a fugue like state she empties out the bucket of water and puts away the mop, her clothes sticking to her sweaty skin. Just as she's about to flip the remaining lights off, she catches sight of it. His leather vest is still lying in a heap on one of the tables. Something selfish tells her to take it, and against her better judgment she does. The twinge between her legs will serve as reminder of what has transpired here for days to come, but it's not enough. There's no real harm in taking it, she reasons, locking up the bar. Daryl won't come looking for it unless he wants a run in with an irate Maggie.

It's a keepsake—nothing more.

Unless he does come back looking for it, in which case it's the perfect excuse to talk to him again.

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**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought, so please leave a review. Constructive criticism is always welcome!**


	2. In the Morning

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of The Walking Dead franchise. Any recognizable characters/locations from the series do not belong to me. Author's Note: Thank you all for the lovely responses to the last chapter. I now feel confident enough to try my hand at continuing this story.**

* * *

Beth jerks awake when something soft wallops her hard in the side. Frowning, she peeks with bleary eyes over her shoulder in the direction of the attack. Maggie, the obvious culprit with the throw pillow still in hand, looms over the back of the couch with a disgruntled look on her face.

"What?" Beth croaks.

Maggie's demeanour is unyielding, the furious set of her gaze and her hip cocked out to the side act as clear signs of irritation. When she addresses her, it's with a tone sharp enough to penetrate the tired fog still clouding her mind. "Why didn't you ever call me last night?"

Put on the spot, Beth's mind stutters. "Sorry, I-I forgot."

Her apology is evidently not enough to appease Maggie however, because the interrogation continues. "I tried calling you. Why didn't you pick up?"

"Dunno—maybe my phone's dead."

"Then why didn't you answer when I called the apartment?"

Growling in frustration when she realizes Maggie's not going to let up any time soon, Beth hefts herself up into a seated position. "I went to bed as soon as I got in, okay? What's with the third degree?"

Maggie, not possessing much patience to begin with, snaps. "I was worried something had happened! I even dragged poor Tara out of bed to check and make sure you got in okay."

"I'm sorry," she repeats, amidst a yawn. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

This earns her a whack upside the head with the cushion. "Well, just what _were_ you thinking about?"

"I—I was just tired, I guess." It's a poor excuse, even to her ears. Still laden with fatigue, her arms are too slow to block when Maggie aims the cushion at her again.

Seeming to accept this explanation—pathetic, though, it is—Maggie finally drops her weapon. Still angry, however, she points an admonishing finger in Beth's face. "You pull that kinda crap again, and I won't use a pillow next time," she warns.

Beth nods, acknowledging the threat, and tosses aside the blanket someone had covered her with while she slept. Glenn's apartment isn't exactly cold, but she still feels a chill run across her skin. There are noises coming from inside the kitchen, and the smell of bacon fills the apartment. "Who's making breakfast?"

"Tara is—Glenn's still asleep. The pain meds knocked him out but good," Maggie says, picking up the blanket and folding it neatly over the back of the couch. She doesn't actually live here, but in her capacity as a frequent guest, she seems to take more pride in keeping this apartment tidy than either Glenn or Tara do.

Swinging her legs over the side of the couch, Beth stands up and stretches languidly. Between her legs the dull ache persists, a result of last night's rigorous activities. A smidgen of guilt ebbs its way into Beth's conscience at the mention of Glenn. She'd forgotten all about him in light of aforementioned activities. "Is he okay?"

"Luckily, his nose wasn't broken, but he does have a couple of cracked ribs." Maggie tucks her short hair behind her ears and rests her hands on her hips, concern for something other than Glenn made clear by her restlessness. "Everything went okay at the bar, right? No problems?"

For a split second, Beth's sure Maggie knows, the same way she'd known after her first time with Jimmy. Maggie's a lot like their dad that way, able to read a person as if their life story were written across their forehead. All the same, Beth feigns nonchalance and just prays she's convincing enough. She really doesn't want to have that discussion at present. "Nope, it was fine.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Maggie bites her lip and scans her face for some telltale sign that will confirm her suspicions. "I dunno—you just seem…" Beth resists the urge to squirm.

"What, out of it? Maybe that's cuz I just woke up, lame brain," she quips, rolling her eyes like it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

Shrugging, Maggie finally backs off, but the worried glint in her eye remains. "Come and get something to eat before we go," she orders, leaving no room for discussion.

Regardless of her lack of an appetite, Beth follows, hoping like hell that Maggie won't notice the slight limp in her step.

* * *

Upon arriving back at the farm, Beth darts upstairs with Maggie's overnight bag. She rummages through it for her own tooth brush, and once she's found it, she locks herself inside the bathroom. Taking care of her usual morning ablutions, she then turns on the shower. She and Maggie had both opted to shower at home since Glenn's place didn't have any hot water. Stripping out her clothes, she pulls back the curtain and steps in under the spray of the water. The delicious heat seeps into her muscles, dissolving the hidden knots of tension in her neck and shoulders. She reaches for the soap and scrubs herself clean, listening to the musical sloshing of water against the floor of the porcelain tub. The whisper of a song surfaces in her memory, and she hums the tune as she washes her hair, realizing as she's rinsing that it's the same Tom Waits' song she'd played for Daryl last night.

When she's finished, she turns off the shower and steps out onto the bathmat. She reaches for the towels on the rack, wrapping one around her head and the other around her body, before opening the door and letting the steam billow out behind her. She quickly makes her way down the hall, only to find Maggie standing just outside her room.

"What are you doing?" Beth asks, her eyes widening.

"You ran away with the overnight bag," she states by way of explanation.

"Oh, right. Well, I need to get changed, so I'll just unpack it while you shower." Slightly panicked, she brushes past Maggie to block her entry.

"Okay," Maggie drawls, and stops her from closing over the door. "Hey, were you singing in the shower?"

"Why? Were you listening at the door?" Beth retorts defensively, trying to close the door once more only for Maggie to stop her again.

"I just haven't heard you singing in a long while."

"I wasn't singing, I was humming."

"Still..." Noticing Beth's haste, her green eyes narrow in suspicion. "Geez, you got a boy in there or something?"

Beth manages a breathy laugh, as if it's a ridiculous notion. Nevermind that Jimmy had been caught sneaking into her bedroom window on more than one occasion. "I just want to get changed—I'm dripping here!"

"Uh huh." Maggie nods but it's obvious to Beth she's not buying it. "Have you been smoking something? Cuz you're acting awfully funny."

"We don't have time for this," Beth huffs impatiently, throwing her weight against the door and forcing it shut at last. She stays frozen on the spot until she hears Maggie's retreating footsteps, at which point Beth lets out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

Unwrapping herself from both towels, she lets them drop to the floor and goes to her wardrobe to root around for clothes. Once dressed, she combs the tangles out of her long blonde tresses.

She doesn't like lying to Maggie, but there's no way to tell her about what happened last night without sending her into a tizzy. She'd only question Beth's motives and start worrying about her being reckless. Besides, Beth already knows how undeniably audacious fucking a stranger on a pool table is, and rationally—no, she realizes it probably wasn't the wisest of choices, but she'd been swept up in the moment. After months of numbly accepting whatever her family thought was best, she had decided what she wanted for herself. She'd made the first move, and there was something liberating about that. And while casual sex might've been a little out of character for Beth, maybe that was a good thing. Lately, she's been unrecognizable to even herself, having worn a tragedy mask for so long. But today she woke up feeling different—better, even. There's a distinct lack of dread hanging over her head this morning, and to Beth that's a noticeable improvement. So, right now she really doesn't need or want Maggie bringing her down with any more of her oppressing concern.

Setting down the brush on her bureau, she goes to her bed and empties out the contents from the overnight bag. At the bottom of the pile, is something she'd squirreled away that she couldn't let Maggie see.

She shrugs it on over her modest, floral dress and breathes in the faint scent of Daryl that clings to the leather. Looking in the mirror, the vest hangs heavily on her too small frame, but she admires the stark contrast of it against her pale skin. There's something deliciously wicked about wearing this over her Sunday best, and it has her clenching her thighs together to alleviate the surge of arousal she feels. Staring at her reflection, she wonders if this was the woman Daryl saw last night when he'd been braced over her, watching her writhe with lust filled eyes. She sweeps her hair over to one side, her fingertips dallying against the smooth expanse of her neck. She remembers the way he'd kissed her there, had leant his forehead against her shoulder when he'd entered her. Her hands slowly wander down her body, until they reach the hem of her dress at mid-thigh. She strokes the soft skin there, reminiscing about how tightly she'd wrapped her legs around his hips, the need to have him overwhelming. They were bruised from his rough treatment, but she doesn't mind so much. The marks are further proof of him, secret reminders that, unlike this vest, she doesn't actively have to hide.

Beth's not naïve enough to think that one good fuck has answered all her problems. Nor does she believe she's suddenly in love with Daryl. For Christ's sake, she doesn't even know his last name. It was a onetime event; a flash in the pan and nothing more—she knows this—but nevertheless it had been a turning point for her. Their harsh, emotive affair had rekindled feelings she'd thought long forgotten, and buried deep beneath her pain and cynicism, a spark of hope has been ignited. Even though her pride had taken a definite hit when he'd up and left afterwards, she wants to see him. Should she have taken his leaving as a sign of his indifference? Or is he thinking about her this morning? Had their tryst meant something to him too? Or with that parting glance had he washed his hands clean of her? That's what's really bothering her today—all the unanswered questions.

A particular Carole King song springs to the forefront of her mind.

A knock on her bedroom door startles her out of her reverie. She jumps, a hand fluttering over her breastbone as if ready to catch her racing heart should it try and leap from her chest.

"Hurry up, Doodlebug," her Daddy's voice calls. "We don't want to be late."

For a moment, she's terrified he might come in. "Okay, Daddy, I'll be out soon," she squeaks out quickly.

Shame trickles over her as she's reminded that she's supposed to be getting ready for church, not losing herself in lustfilled thoughts. So, pushing away thoughts of Daryl and last night's romp, Beth turns away from the mirror to change out of the vest and into her cream coloured cardigan. However, something catches her attention when she goes to slip it off her shoulders. There are angel wings stitched into the back of the vest. How hadn't she noticed them the night before?

More importantly, why were they so familiar to her?

* * *

Currently seated atop one of the barstools in Hatlin's, Beth tries and fails to keep herself from looking forlornly over her shoulder at the pool table where a patron is lining up his next shot. She watches as he sinks a ball into a corner pocket, all the while thinking about the feel of that green felt against her bare back. It's a Wednesday night, Maggie's not working and the bar's relatively empty, but she came to help out with closing anyway. She manages to convince herself that she needs to be here on the off chance that he shows up again. She knows she's verging on pathetic, but those precious feelings that Daryl had unearthed seemed to be slipping further and further away as the week drags tediously on.

It's been days and she's almost driven herself crazy trying to remember where she knows those angel wings from. She's taken to keeping Daryl's vest stashed away in her bottom drawer, under an old sweatshirt that she'd borrowed from Shawn and never returned. And though she's aware she probably shouldn't torture herself, she continues to try the vest on every night, hoping to stir up the same emotions. Alas, it has become a poor substitute for Daryl's touch and does not offer the comfort she expected it would.

"You sure you don't want something to eat?" Carol's question manages to wrench her attention away from the pool table, temporarily at least. "I could ask T to fix you something before he takes off."

Beth shakes her head and smiles politely. "No, thanks, but I wouldn't mind another refill."

Reaching across the bar, Carol takes away the empty glass in front of her. "One Shirley Temple coming right up."

"So, how's the wrist?" Beth asks, conversationally. A couple weeks ago, Carol had tripped going down the stairs carrying a laundry basket. She'd managed to circumvent a serious injury by putting her hand out to catch herself, but she'd still ended up with a sprain.

"It's definitely better, but I'll have to wear the brace for a bit longer," Carol says as she fetches a fresh glass. "You know you really didn't have to come by to help with closing, sweetie. I think I can handle it."

"I'm happy to help."

"Shouldn't you be off doing whatever girls your age do?" Beth's silence prompts Carol to start listing off suggestions. "You could get Maggie to go to a movie with you? I'm sure there's something playing. Or maybe call up a friend and have them sleepover?"

Beth crosses her arms over the top of the bar, and sighs. "Nah, I'm not really up for it."

"Well, then I guess I lucked out tonight."

Either Beth's being entirely too obvious, or Carol's just as perceptive as Maggie is, because the older woman gives her a look full of motherly concern. Carol has always been the shrewd sort; wary and quiet by nature, but as nice as they come. After meeting Daryl, Beth can see his likeness in her.

"Are you okay?" Carol asks, as she fixes Beth another drink.

"There's an ongoing debate about that, actually," she jokes, earning a smile.

"I just mean you seem distracted. Too much fun or not enough?"

Beth shrugs. "A little of both actually," she admits. "But right now, I'm really just trying to remember something."

"What?"

Strangely, she doesn't hesitate to tell Carol. Maybe it's because she won't push for more than Beth's willing to share, unlike Maggie. "I'm trying to remember a story about a leather vest, with angel wings on the back."

Carol falters but recovers quickly, placing the fresh Shirley Temple down on a coaster and sliding it over to her. She crosses her freckled arms and props herself against the other side of the bar, leaning in closer to Beth. "What brought this on?"

Beth stirs the drink with her straw, the ice clinking inside the glass as she does. "Some guy was here during closing the other night," she explains, avoiding specifics. "He was wearing a vest like that and I can't for the life of me remember where I know it from."

"This the same guy that beat up Glenn?"

She nods.

"Well, I remember Will Dixon used to wear a vest like that in his younger days."

Beth had heard stories around town about the Dixons—stories that could curdle the blood. That family was infamous around these parts, even after Will Dixon's death seventeen years ago. He'd been a violent drunk, in and out of prison for some offense or another. Linden County is only a safe and uneventful place these days because of his death, after which his two sons both disappeared, inciting suspicion and endless gossip.

"He was a Dixon?" Beth's eyes widen. _Had she really been intimate with one of the Dixon brothers?_ Maybe that should disgust her, but it doesn't. She's actually a bit glad for this new information, if only because it explains Daryl's lack of manners.

"Must've been," Carol says. "Did you catch his name? Was he good looking?"

"Daryl," she answers a little too quickly to be subtle. Beth shifts awkwardly in her seat and takes a sip from her drink, all the while fighting back a blush. "And I s'pose he was…why does _that_ matter?"

Carol stands up straight and whips out a rag, wiping away the smudges left on the surface of the bar. "Well, from what I remember, Will Dixon was a looker in his day. I know it's hard to believe considering what an evil man he was, but people used to say he had the face of an angel. I guess his son must've inherited more than just the vest."

Beth chews on her straw thoughtfully. Considering his appearance in detail, it was clear the years had not been kind to the Dixon son, if it was indeed him. However, that wasn't to say he was unattractive. On the contrary, Beth could easily believe that Daryl had inherited his father's good looks along with his vest. She'd found him very handsome, ruggedly so. What she was really having trouble swallowing, was the idea that he had carried on Will Dixon's legacy in any other way. Beth remembers being alone with Daryl; the cautious way he'd moved, worried he'd startle her. She can also recall the gentle rasp of his voice when he'd introduced himself, and how kind she'd found the slightest smile. Even when their coupling had turned rough, he'd never been disrespectful of her.

Beth uses her thumb and forefinger to fish out the floating cherry in her drink by its stem, and then pops it into her mouth. "I don't think he was a bad guy," she asserts quietly. "I think he was just having a bad day."

Carol's eyebrows rise, surprised by her assessment, before pinching together when her mouth pulls into a frown. She bundles up the rag in her left hand, and Beth sees her eyes flick down to the wedding ring she still wears. "I'm sure you're right, but having a bad day doesn't entitle him to take it out on someone else."

Beth bobs her head in agreement, and a heavy silence draws out between them. She's known Carol for a while now, but they're still only just acquainted with each other. She wouldn't even know how to broach the subject of her late husband, or how Carol would respond. But looking at the woman now and seeing the mousy way she carries herself, Beth can tell she's had her fair share of sorrow, and an abusive husband is just the tip of the iceberg. She searches for words of comfort, but can think of none. Nor is there a secret handshake for the downtrodden to show her solidarity. So, Beth offers what little she can.

"Do you want to pick the song tonight?" she asks, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out the money Dale had left.

The older woman's expression smoothes out, and she takes the proffered change, giving Beth a fond smile that reminds her so much of her own mother that she could cry. "Hope you like Jim Croce."

* * *

"This seat taken?"

Beth turns from where she's been staring out the window, watching the scenery whiz by, and sees Jimmy hovering over the back of the seat in front of her. She nods and he plops down next to her, without delay. She's reminded of all the times throughout their shared childhood when they'd ridden on the school bus together just like this, and just how different things are now. Eyes towards the front of the bus, she waits for him to strike up the conversation.

"So-uh, are you excited for graduation?"

For Beth, high school isn't nearly as fun as it was for Maggie or Shawn. It's not that Beth doesn't do well academically or that it's a source of social anguish, but the last few years of her life have been so shadowed by grief and personal hardship, that her high school experience sort of passed her by without making much of an impression. She's a senior now, graduating in a month's time. It's a rite of passage for teenagers, a mark of achievement one supposes. Yet, Beth's not looking forward to it and she doesn't pretend otherwise. It just doesn't seem to mean as much when half her family won't be there to acknowledge it.

"I'll be glad when it's over with."

"Me too," he says, misunderstanding her. "I can't wait to move out. I've decided to go to Columbus State."

"That's great!" she praises, flashing him grin.

Growing up, she and Jimmy had often been thrown together due to their mothers being such close friends. Looking back now, becoming boyfriend and girlfriend at fifteen seems more like the natural progression of what had been expected for them, than an actual romance. But that's not to say she hadn't loved Jimmy at the time. Watching his enthusiasm as he tells her all about his plans for after graduation, she can easily remember a time not too long ago when she'd thought he hung the moon. It was puppy love, she supposes—not the stuff of a lasting love, though for a short while she'd convinced herself it was. After Shawn died, he'd stuck by her and played the part of a dutiful boyfriend. But then between her mom's passing and the state of depression she'd fallen into, he'd ended it. She supposes it would've been asking a lot out of anyone, let alone a teenage boy, to help her get through all of that. But he'd let her down when she'd needed his support most, and it had felt like a betrayal.

It had been that final chapter in a series of unfortunate events that had had her reaching for something sharp to end it all.

Still, looking at him now, so baby faced and eager, a tiny part of her misses him. In her heart, there will probably always be a childish sort of affection for this boy, despite her disappointment in how their relationship had ended.

"Look, I was wondering…I know things have been weird between us lately, but do you—I mean, are you planning to go to prom?"

Suddenly catapulted back into the present where things are still awkward between them, she casts her eyes out the window. The bus is approaching the next stop on its route, and has started to slow down in order to let students off. "I dunno," she murmurs. "I kinda forgot all about it."

Untrue. Maggie had been pestering her about it lately, trying to lure her out dress shopping every chance she got. But like many things these days, Beth hasn't had any interest.

"Well…" Jimmy clears his throat, and Beth winces for what she knows is coming. "I was thinking that maybe we could go together. As friends. You know, if you want."

Still not meeting his eye, she shrugs. "That sounds nice, but…"

She trails off when the bus has come to a full stop and her eyes land on what's on the other side of the road. It's a rather unkempt looking man crouched beside a parked motorcycle with what appears to be a crossbow strapped to his back.

It's Daryl.

Now, Beth has never given much thought to the notion of fate, but this coincidence strikes her dumb. His sudden reappearance at the very moment when her past is reaching out to her via Jimmy, _has_ to be some kind of sign. Without a second thought, Beth grabs her backpack from up off the floor and is moving out of her seat. She steps on Jimmy's toes in her rush to get past him, deaf to his calling after her about how this isn't her stop. She hurries up to the front, unaware of the glances she's garnering, and steps off the bus. The doors close behind her and a moment later the bus is pulling away with Jimmy staring confusedly at her of through the rear window.

She slings one of the straps of her bag over a shoulder, and proceeds to march in Daryl's direction. He seems aware of her approach, if the straightening of his shoulders is any indication, but he doesn't turn to look. Instead he keeps his primary focus on the bike. She comes to a stop a few paces away from him, admiring his exposed arms. They're so burly and tanned that it makes her want to swoon like a heroine from one of her mom's not-so-secret stash of bodice-rippers.

She thankfully resists the urge, and clears her throat.

Unlikely though it was that she would have run into him again, Beth can't deny she's been anticipating this moment for the last six days. She hasn't prepared exactly what she wants to say to him, which probably would have been a good idea before prancing over here to potentially make an idiot of herself. Nevertheless, she needs to confront him, if only for some peace of mind. If what happened between them was totally meaningless to him then she needs to know, even if it means coming face to face with yet another harsh reality. She clears her throat again, and unable to ignore her presence any longer, he cranes his neck to peer up at her.

"Hey," she says, breathlessly.

He blinks at her, recognition dawning instantaneously.

* * *

**I didn't want to wait to post this chapter. After the SF tonight I'm not sure I'd be up for it. Please note that this story is unbetaed, so feel free to point out any mistakes I may have missed. I hope you liked it!**


	3. Blue Skies

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Walking Dead franchise. Any recognizable characters/locations/dialogue from the show, do not belong to me. Author's Note: I'm sorry it's been a month since I last updated. I got really busy with exams, and to be honest this chapter was harder to write than I'd thought it would be. To be honest, I'm still not entirely satisfied with it. But if I don't post it now, I probably never will. Chapter title comes from the Tom Waits' song of the same name.**

* * *

From his crouched position, he squints up at her in disbelief. He'd honestly never expected to see her again, let alone that she'd come skipping up to him on the side of the road. She's smiling down at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to say something, but nothing comes to mind. He's never really been much of a talker. Between the two of them, Merle had been the orator. And Daryl, seeing how much trouble his brother's mouth could cause, had always opted for silence. However, sometimes even that wasn't enough to spare him from the brunt of his old man's ire.

"What d'you want?" The question comes out sharper than he intends, but her friendly exterior doesn't fade.

"You know most people just say 'hello'."

When she speaks, he nearly startles. For the last six days her melodic voice has echoed in his mind, and to actually hear it again so clear and close, sends tingles down his spine.

Daryl has never been a religious man, but he can't help but think there is something angelic about the way she looks. He's almost compelled to reach out and touch her, confirm if she's a mirage or not, but he's loathe to mar her flawless skin with his grimy hands. Had she always been this young and fresh-faced? Maybe it had been the dim lights, or just the weariness in her voice, but she'd seemed older that night. This girl—Beth—now standing before him, is different from when he'd first met her. For one, her smile now reaches her eyes, which are as bright and blue as the sky above her. Blonde wisps of hair frame her face, prettily, and the curve of her bare neck is far too alluring for him not to notice.

"So, do you remember my name? Or am I really that forgettable?" She sounds like she's joking, but he can tell she's fishing for some reassurance.

"I remember you—Beth," he says, feeling compelled to take away that insecurity.

He vaguely wishes he could forget her name, but it falls from his lips in a whisper each time he wakes from another fevered dream. On such mornings, a blissful peace befalls him in the few seconds it takes before he becomes fully conscious. At which point, he drags himself out of bed, mulishly shaking his head in an unsuccessful attempt to rid himself of any remnants of the dream, like how she'd clung to him as if he were the only thing anchoring her to earth.

Lecherous thoughts start firing through his mind, making him feel as though he's somehow tainting her by staring. So, abruptly standing, he averts his eyes and pretends to inspect the bike from a new angle.

"What're you doing out here?" she asks.

"I was just going for a ride," he grumbles, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His nervousness grows while she continues to look at him, and he's suddenly very aware of the fact that he hasn't showered today.

"With a crossbow?"

He shrugs, not bothering to explain. He doesn't expect her to understand, he'd wager that few people would. He'd spent his entire life bow hunting. It was one of the few useful skills his father had actually taken the time to teach him. And though he hadn't specifically planned on going hunting today, he preferred to always have his crossbow close by. Life on the road with Merle had taught him to always be prepared for a quick getaway, and his bow was the one earthly possession that Daryl couldn't imagine living without. It's an extension of himself, the same way a paintbrush would be for an artist. He readjusts the strap across his chest, currently taking comfort in its presence when there's a predator so near. It might seem odd to think of this Bambi eyed girl as a threat, but in a way she is. She endangers his composure simply by standing there, looking the way she does. Heat rises around his collar, and he stubbornly tries to convince himself he's just sunburnt from being outside for so long.

"Cool bike," she chirps, still attempting to engage him in an actual conversation. "Is it yours?"

He shakes his head. "S'my brother's."

"Merle, right?"

He glances at her with thinly veiled surprise. "Yeah."

"Did he ever show up?"

No, he hadn't. He hasn't even thought to call, not that Daryl is all that surprised. Merle was cagey about coming back here, as though if he were to step foot in town, a bear trap would surely clamp down on him and keep him here. But then, he's always been something of a free spirit, living from one whim to the next, and going wherever the wind blows him. He'd left at sixteen and never looked back, leaving a young Daryl behind to suffer his father's wrath alone—a fact Daryl is still embittered to.

Beth uses the back of her hand to wipe the sweat from her brow, and he shifts uncomfortably remembering what her sweat slicked skin had felt like. Biting her lip, a thoughtful expression comes across her. Her eyes flit across his face, as if she'll find the answer to her unvoiced question written in the creases of his furrowed brow.

"…Are you a Dixon?"

He pauses for a moment, stiffening at the offensive sound of his own name. He neither confirms nor denies the accusation, but his silence is answer enough. Seeming to sense her misstep, Beth changes the subject as quickly as she can, but the damage is done.

"I've never ridden on a motorcycle before. I can't imagine what my daddy would say!" she prattles off, her cheeriness sounding forced now.

"Pretty sure he wouldn't be happy to hear that you've been slummin' it," he bites out.

Her eyes widen, visibly stung by his harshness. "Slumming?"

He grimaces and shrugs at her, daring her to correct him.

In Linden County, being a Dixon is a sin in and of itself. Having grown up here, Daryl is under no delusions whatsoever about the reputation his family name carries. He knows he must look the part, criminal and brutish in his ripped jeans and t-shirt stained from motor oil. Meanwhile, in her clean and modest clothes, Beth looks every bit the white picket fence girl he thinks she is. Only a few feet from each other, they stand as polar opposites. She is decent and pure, and men like him—dirty, uneducated, with roots rotted through—have nothing to offer her except a taste of chaos. He's a Dixon, he always will be, and one good fuck didn't change that.

Her eyes narrow, her upper lip curls, and he can feel the indignation rolling off of her in waves. "That's what you think of me? That I'm just some rebellious teenage bimbo looking for attention?"

"Aint you?" He appears to have struck a nerve, causing her face to scrunch up angrily.

"Screw you, Daryl!"

"Well, if you aint here to piss your old man off, then what the fuck do you want?"

"To talk to you!" she snaps fiercely. "I didn't get the chance to last time before you took off!"

Guilt washes over him and he scuffs the toe of his boot against the asphalt. "Was I supposed to write a 'thank you' card?"

"You could have at least waited until I was dressed, instead of leaving me bare-assed and alone like some used up whore. If it wasn't any good, fair enough, but you could've—"

"It aint like that. It was—" He has a strong urge to tell her the truth; tell her he's never had it so good before, that he wants her just as badly as he did then, and that once isn't nearly enough to quench his thirst for her, but he stops dead before he can embarrass himself by waxing poetry. He can feel the heat of his sunburn reach the tops of his ears. She seems to have simmered down some, pacified for the moment that it hadn't been her performance to chase him off.

He'd had a few women in his thirty-six years, most of them paid for their company. Release with them had always been a physical inevitability, never holding much significance until that night when he'd had Beth writhing beneath him, her athletic legs wrapped around his hips. No part of him had been left unscathed then; he'd quaked from head to toe, all of him alive. And when the deed was done, he'd had this sudden desire to bask in the afterglow with her; to hear more of her music and listen to her talk about anything and everything. But that's not the kind of guy he is—he's a Dixon, after all. He can't lie to himself and pretend he doesn't want her, but he also knows there's no sense pining over something he can't really have. And while his skin may itch for the feel of her softness, he _cannot_ give in to those kinds of thoughts either.

Because if he doesn't get her out of his system soon, he's going to start craving her like Merle does meth. And if there is one thing, Daryl will never let himself become, it's an addict.

He tears his eyes away from her, turning his attention to the motorcycle instead, tempted to just hop on and drive off. He can adjust the carburetor another time. Right now, he just wants to get as far away from Beth as he can.

Seeming to read his mind, she drops her knapsack to the ground and steps between him and the bike. "Could you at least look at me before you blow me off?"

She's so close that he doesn't have much choice in the matter. "What more you got to say, girl?"

"I wanna know what that was—why you tucked tail and ran."

"Don't matter," he grumbles.

"It does too matter! Why d'you keep acting like a jackass?"

In his life, he's never hit a woman. But, his remarks were often so cutting, that he could easily reduce a young girl like Beth to tears. Funny, how a reticent fellow such as him could so effectively use his words as a weapon. "It cross your mind that maybe I aint acting?"

She folds her arms over her chest and cocks her hip out to the side, fixing him with a scowl. "Stop trying to feed me that crap, just because you're afraid."

His jaw tightens and his nostrils flare. He takes a purposeful step towards her, invading her space, but she doesn't back down. She's goading him now—an unwise thing to do when he's already struggling to maintain his calm.

"I aint afraid of nothin'."

"Yeah, you are," she states plainly, leaving no room for argument. "You're scared and lonely and lost—just like me."

"You don't know shit," he growls low in his throat.

She lifts her chin boldly and holds his gaze, apparently not willing to let him leave until she's said her piece. There's an iron resolve beneath her skin, an obvious determination he's no match for. She's such a small thing—almost dainty looking. If it came down to it, he could just lift her up out of his way, but he refrains from doing so. Despite his anger, a part of him is fascinated with her. He wishes he had half her guts. He's never been very good at standing his ground, having always let Merle call the shots. Her assessment of him is right on the money, he's sorry to admit.

"I know you didn't want to be there that night," she continues, "but you still stayed when I asked you to."

He swallows thickly, and recollects how worn down she'd sounded when she'd called him back. Truthfully, that was the reason he'd decided stay. It was the same way he remembers his ma sounding when she'd send him to fetch her Virginia Slims and a glass of Jim Beam—resigned and hopeless.

"You're not a bad guy, Daryl, so don't bother trying to bullshit me."

He stays there frozen on the spot, chest heaving in uneven pants. A myriad of emotions are coursing through him, and he can't identify a single one. All he knows is that she's managed to call him out on his bullshit twice now. When she'd spoken to him that night about wanting to be different, she'd touched something deep down at the very core his being—something he hadn't realized was there. No one's ever done that before—no one's ever dared to try and see him as anything but just another backwoods thug. He wishes he could say something remotely intelligible and make her understand what he's thinking, how he's feeling. But, as per usual, he doesn't know quite what to say.

So, he moves past her, unable to bear the weight of the look she's giving him. He swings his leg over the other side of the bike, straddling the seat. He starts it, and over the roar of the engine, he hears her yell out to him.

"Are you staying in town?"

"Until Merle gets here," he answers just as loudly.

She raises her voice a little louder, frustrated. "Where are you staying?"

"Motel."

"The one off of Elders Mill Road?"

He nods, not really sure why he's telling her this when he's standing on such a slippery slope already. But the possibilities of what she might do with this information make his insides flutter. It's definitely time to go—he's tortured himself enough for one day. With a parting nod, the same one he'd given her that night in the bar, he kicks up the stand and takes off down the road. In the rearview mirror, he watches her shrinking figure pick her school bag up off the ground, and sling it over her shoulder.

* * *

Daryl's busy watching some old John Wayne film, while he retightens the bolts on his crossbow. When there's a knock at the door, he initially ignores it. He never lets in the maid service and he's not expecting company, but after a moment the knocking continues. He puts aside his bow and the screwdriver he's using, sets the television on mute, and makes his way over to the door, ready to scare off whoever's dumb enough to ignore his Do Not Disturb sign. His heart skips a beat when he looks through the peephole and sees Beth standing outside. The smile on her face is a hesitant one, almost like she's uncertain whether or not she wants to still be standing there when the door opens.

Without giving it much thought, he flips open the security guard, turns the handle and opens it the barest crack. It's a nice day out, one with a cloudless, blue sky, and bright sunlight that filters into his shaded room.

"Hey."

Revealing only half of his face to her, he blinks in response. This is now the second time she's ambushed him, but considering that he told her where he's staying, maybe he shouldn't be as surprised as he is to see her here. At a complete loss for words, he finds himself growing frustrated. Why does the very sight of her make him speechless? She must think he's an idiot, unable to ever manage a fucking 'hello'.

"I was hoping we could talk," she says, sensing the need to justify her presence. "And maybe this time we could keep from jumping down each others' throat?"

He wrestles with himself for a long moment, before giving her an affirmative nod.

"Are you going to let me in, or do I need some kind of password?"

Stepping back, he opens the door wider, allowing her entry. The motel is pretty isolated, but he quickly searches for anyone who might see her entering. He'd hate for anyone to go getting the wrong idea, the same one he's struggling with. Her arm brushes against his chest as she moves past him, and his grip on the door handle tightens in response. If she touches him again, he isn't sure he'll be able to stop himself from pressing her up against it wall.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, closing the door whilst berating himself for being so stupid as to actually open it in the first place.

"Why not?" Before he can come up with an excuse, she cuts him off. "The only reason I shouldn't be here is if you don't want me here."

Why does she have any interest in him whatsoever? She's a beautiful, clever girl, who must have guys her own age lined up to have their chance with her. So, what's she doing here with him? When he'd suggested that her interest in him was solely in the interest of pissing off her folks, she'd gotten mad, but Daryl couldn't think of any other explanation. He shoves his hands into his pockets, not knowing what else to do with them.

"Don't get why you even wanna be here? Don't you have homework or somethin'?" he asks, eying her school bag. A quick glance to the alarm clock on his nightstand tells him that school's only just let out. Good Lord, just how young is she? At the very least, he's pretty sure she's legal, though it might've been smart to check before fucking her on the pool table. Of all the things he could go to jail for…

She turns slowly in a circle, surveying his motel room. He ducks his head bashfully, wishing he'd not been so lazy as to leave his bed unmade. "I finished it in class. And I s'pose I wanna be here because you're here."

He frowns, his hackles rising at the careless way she tosses this statement at him, as though it's not the least bit jarring. "You don't know jack about me."

Dropping her knapsack on the floor and turning to look at him once more, he suddenly feels self-conscious. Her big, limpid eyes hold no judgment, yet he still wishes he was dressed nicer, was shaved and showered. For some reason, he wants to be worthy of that gaze, of the attention she inexplicably continues to give him. She places her hands on her hips and tilts her head.

"I'm not scared of you Daryl," she murmurs. "You're about the only thing in the world that doesn't scare me. Maybe that sounds stupid or whatever—but it's true. I just…breathe easier when I'm around you."

He doesn't know what to do with this confession. He doesn't feel the same. Having her around puts him on edge. He can't give into these feelings but nor can he escape them, so it's rather like being painted into a corner. Does she know what a difficult position she's putting him in? Honesty seems to spill from her lips without much effort. If it doesn't cost her anything to say these things, how could she ever understand what it costs him to hear them?

"If you'd stop being so damn prickly, I'd like to get to know you."

"Prickly?" he snorts, genuinely amused by her description. "No one's ever called me that before."

"It's accurate."

He catches himself returning her smile, and immediately wipes it from his face. He's not supposed to be making nice with her. He should be ushering her out the door, telling her not to bother him again. But the will to follow through and do just that, isn't strong enough. In spite of himself, he likes being around her.

"It was a onetime thing." He's already mentioned this before, but he feels it bears repeating for both their sakes.

"Doesn't have to be."

It takes a moment for her words to hit him, and when they do, he feels as though all of the air has been knocked out of him. His eyes widen and he nearly swallows his tongue trying to argue. It's one thing to be plagued by these tempting thoughts, and another to come face to face with temptation itself. He feels suddenly lightheaded as his blood rushes south, his cock hardening in his jeans. He wants to refuse her—or beg her, he's not entirely sure which, but he can't manage more than a few sputtered vowel sounds.

"You shouldn't be here," he reiterates, the words seeming to echo all around the room only to fall on deaf ears. He practically stumbles back against the door when she starts drawing nearer. He resents her a little for tempting him the way she does. It's one thing to do it unknowingly, but she appears to be fully aware of the affect she's having on him now.

"Do you really want me to go, Daryl?" she asks, pressing against him and batting her eyelids. "Cuz all you gotta do is say so."

Her tone of voice is so innocent, but he can hear her challenge clear as a bell.

For a brief instant when her eyes flick down to his lips, he hopes she'll put him out of his misery. Part of him knows kissing her is an even bigger mistake than opening the door had been, but another part doesn't care. If she kisses him, then consequences be damned—he's hardly at fault. So he waits, heart in his throat, for her to press the hairpin curve of her mouth against his. He wonders if she'll taste the same as she did before, of cinnamon flavoured gum and raspberry lip balm. The curiosity is almost overwhelming but the long honed instinct to avoid vulnerability, which in the past has kept him alive, now keeps him still. She has to make the first move, it can't be him.

With lowered eyes and slumped shoulders, she takes a step back when she realizes he's not going to rise to the bait. She seems disappointed and relieved by this, as well as a tad embarrassed by her boldness. Of a like mind, she's clearly unwilling to be the instigator again. Not that he can really blame her, especially with the way he's been acting towards her since the last time.

She loops her thumbs through her belt loops and clears her throat. "I really did just come here to talk," she says, with an apologetic tone.

Once there's a respectable distance between them, and his control is no longer in danger of snapping, Daryl heaves a deep and calming breath. He feels hot and tight beneath his skin, arousal tempered but not gone. He wonders if she would be offended if he were to take this opportunity to excuse himself on the grounds of needing a cold shower.

"Well, you been doing plenty of that," he says instead.

She rolls her eyes. "Please stop acting like you don't give a crap. We both know it's a lie."

"'S not like we gotta get married or somethin' just cuz we fucked."

"You're right—we don't owe each other anything." She's shaking her head as she speaks, and he watches the gentle swish of her ponytail as she does. "…And I know you're not gonna be sticking 'round for too long, anyway."

He hums in concurrence.

"So, then, what's the harm in us spending some time together?"

"You're lookin' for a fling?"

"Not specifically, but I'm willing to take whatever you'll give me." Perhaps telling the truth comes at a higher cost for her than he gives credit for because with this admission, she shyly tucks her chin toward chest, as if bracing herself for his mockery. However, to Daryl, this is no teasing matter. These words are critical, offering plenty of opportunity to become treacherous should she become dissatisfied with his unavailability in the future.

It's a bad idea, and he's sensible enough to see that, but he finds himself acquiescing just the same.

"It aint much," he warns, presenting her with a truth of his own. "Hardly worthwhile."

She gives him a one shouldered shrug, and plops down on his bed with a slight bounce. She swipes the remote, turning up the volume on the TV, as though hoping the sounds from the western will drown out what comes out of her mouth next. But he hears it anyway.

"I think it's enough—we can be enough."

Something warm unfurls inside his chest at this notion. He wants to believe her, wants to see if she's right. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and pats the space on the bed beside her. Conflicted, he chews the inside of his cheek. He can't keep ignoring whatever's going on between them, and he's starting to think she's not going to give him the chance. So, maybe if he can keep himself from diving into the deep end and drowning, he can give in a little and get his feet wet.

"I've always been more partial to James Stewart, but I don't mind watching this" she tells him, smirking when he opts to sit in the rickety dining chair.

She stays through the whole movie, offering a humorous commentary that he doesn't hear a word of. He'd resumed retightening the bolts, comforted by the weight of his bow in his hands especially now that he's let himself get caught in her snare.

* * *

**This was unbetaed so if you find any errors, please share them. Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks for reading!**


	4. If I Have To Go

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Walking Dead franchise. Any recognizable characters/locations/dialogue do not belong to me, and are being used for entertainment purposes. Author's Note: Again, I'm sorry for another late update. I had meant to add this chapter last week, but I've been in the hospital after have two epileptic seizures and I've only just got home. At least I have a good excuse this time!**

* * *

Merle finally does call, days later.

It's a brief conversation between the brothers. Apparently, some important meth deal's going down and Merle will meet up with him just as soon as it's finalized. His brother says it should only take about a week or so, but experience suggests that his absence will most likely stretch out into another month. In the meantime, Merle tells Daryl to take care of his bike and to find something pretty to "uncork his bottle".

Daryl made the conscious decision not to mention Beth.

While he knows he ought to have turned her away and cut all ties by now, he's become oddly protective of his time with her. He doesn't want to share anything about it with Merle, not because he'd be teased mercilessly—Daryl's used to that—but rather because he would then be forced to acknowledge just how powerful his fixation with her has become.

She's shown up at his motel room after school almost every day this week, and when he hears the familiar knock on his door at half past three, something akin to excitement rises inside his chest. Smothering it down as best he can, Daryl wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans, and goes to answer the door.

There she stands, pretty as a picture, with her hair in its usual ponytail and a keen grin on her face.

"Hey," she says, proudly holding up the small box of donuts she's brought. "I hope you like jelly."

He finds the lilting melody of her voice far too soothing and every nuance of her smile enthralling. The overwhelming instinct to open up to her like he's on some crappy daytime talk show; to touch her, to hold her, to stoke the passion that burns between them—is simply bewildering. To be this close and not have her is agonizing, but he forebears, if only because no one's ever looked at him the way she does—like he's worth something. Still, he knows it can't go on this way. He's toeing a very dangerous line, one that if he crosses, there's no coming back from.

Instead of returning her salutation, he merely opens the door wider and lets her enter. He takes a deep breath as she moves past him, inhaling her scent of ivory soap and freshly cut grass. Forcing himself to ignore how nice she smells, he summons all of his conviction to do what needs to be done. However, when he shuts the door and turns around, he makes the mistake of looking at her. She's offering him a glazed donut, one of the aforementioned jellies, and smiling. And it's the very thought of never seeing that smile again, that keeps throwing him off course every time he attempts to end things with her.

After a moment of silently cursing himself, he takes the donut from her. "Thanks," he mutters stupidly.

She bobs her head and sucks a sticky, sweetened digit into her mouth, drawing all of his focus.

"Do you wanna watch some TV?" she asks.

He absentmindedly hums his assent and follows her to the foot of the bed, where he then sits down on the edge of the mattress. He reaches for the remote, but she quickly scoops it up. "Great, cuz it's my turn to choose what we watch."

"It's my remote," he points out.

She dangles it teasingly. "You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands, Dixon."

Instead of making a grab for it, he leans forward and rests his forearms against his knees, a smile of his own tugging at his lips. She sits cross-legged on the floor by his feet, resting her head against his knee as she channel surfs. It's not remotely sexual, merely casual physical contact as if between longtime friends. This sudden familiarity between them is vexing, but moreover, it's comforting. He resists the impulse to stroke her head, to toy with the end of her ponytail. He can't bring himself to ask her to leave yet, even though he knows he should.

One more day—surely he could put it off for one more day, couldn't he? So, for what seems like the umpteenth time, that's exactly what he does.

* * *

As far back as Beth can remember, the Greene family farm has allowed its tractor to be used to give weekly hayrides to the neighbourhood kids. It's the first of the summer, and Beth and Maggie sit as chaperones in the wagon with the children. The tractor trundles down the dusty back road, and above them the sun is setting, painting the sky in a beautiful orange hue. She notices Maggie is oddly quiet tonight, sitting with her legs dangling off the back of the wagon, her eyes focused on the road reappearing out from underneath them.

"Remember when Shawn would drive the tractor and Otis would sit back here with us and play guitar?" Maggie says, twirling a piece of hay back and forth between her fingers.

Beth nods, bouncing little Judith Grimes on her knee.

"Maybe next time you could bring your guitar."

A pang of sadness hits her hard, and she instinctively snuggles Judith closer. She hasn't so much as touched her guitar since Shawn's passing. "It wouldn't be the same without Shawn singing along."

A small smile, tinged with melancholy, appears on her sister's face. "He couldn't have carried a tune to save his life."

"Not even in a bucket with a lid on it," she jokes, even though it hardly seems funny anymore.

She shifts the baby on her lap, stopping her from eating a handful of hay. In truth, Judith is probably too young to really appreciate any of this, so Beth suspects the real reason she's along for the ride is due to the Sherriff and his wife Lori needing some time to themselves. They'd never confirmed it, but everyone in town already knew their marriage was on the rocks, and had been for some time.

Beth closes her eyes, enjoying the gentle breeze rustling through the trees and the persistent hum of cicadas. As a little girl, she'd always loved warm summer evenings like this; evenings spent out on the porch sitting between her mama's legs, letting her brush and braid her hair before bedtime. She remembers chasing after Shawn and Maggie, idolizing them for catching so many fireflies when her own jar was almost always empty. She remembers her daddy calling them all back into the house when it got too dark. Beth blinks against the pricking of tears behind her eyes, and inhales sharply. Her chest tightens painfully whenever memories like that arise, making it harder to breathe.

"You okay, Beth?" Carl, Judith's brother, asks from the front of the wagon. He's always had something of a crush on her, and even now at the smallest sign of trouble, he's willing to jump to her aid. She forces a smile so as not to worry him—something she does a lot of lately.

"Just allergies acting up," she lies.

He shrugs and turns back to his friend Patrick, seeming to accept her answer, but she can feel Maggie's eyes on her now.

"What?"

Maggie tucks her short brown hair behind her ears and shakes her head. "Nothing."

If experience has taught Beth anything, it's that it's never "nothing" with Maggie. Forthrightness being a trait they've always shared, she waits patiently; it's only a matter of time before her sister reveals what's actually on her mind.

"…Actually, I'm just wondering about last week when you finished closing the bar for me."

When Beth groans in frustration, Judith twists so she can look up at her curiously. With an exaggerated frown, Beth shakes her head at the little girl, earning a small giggle.

"It's just you've been acting funny since then," Maggie continues, ignoring her antics. "And now I think I know why."

Beth's back straightens and her seat atop the hay bale is suddenly very uncomfortable. She keeps her eyes on the babbling baby, watches her make drool bubbles. "Maggie, will you just let it go! Nothing happened, I told y—"

"You had sex on top of the pool table."

She feels winded by Maggie's deduction. "What are you talking about?" she wheezes, trying to school her features so as not to give herself away, and failing miserably.

"I found a used rubber in one of the pockets."

Beth's blood runs cold. Between Daryl's rush to get out of there and her own embarrassment, they'd both forgotten all about it. Biting her lip, she anxiously glances over to make sure none of the kids have overheard. Ensuring that this conversation is still private, she then looks back to Maggie and gives her a small, confirming nod.

"I knew it—Jesus Christ, Beth!" Maggie exclaims. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Don't start with me," she warns. She'd known all along to expect Maggie's concern, but she didn't need the extra side of judgement, especially not from somebody with her own fair share of indiscretions. Beth would hate to drudge any of that up, but she's got the list ready should Maggie keep scolding her.

Maggie flicks away the piece of straw she's been fiddling with, turning so that one of her knees comes up to rest on the hay covered floor of the wagon. She looks up at Beth as if she doesn't even recognize her. "I didn't even know you were seeing somebody, but maybe I should've guessed."

"It's a relatively new development," she says honestly, though in the vaguest sense.

Her sister's dissatisfied frown does not dissipate for even an instant. "I take it it's not Jimmy, then?"

She pries the end of her ponytail out from Judith's clutches. Maggie had always liked Jimmy, and had hoped that he would come around eventually. Beth now understands why she's still holding onto that hope: Jimmy was safe. If she was still dating him, then Maggie could rest easy knowing that her little sister was being looked after. "Nope."

Maggie's expression becomes impatient. "Well, who is he?"

Beth flinches at the thought of the worry that would undoubtedly come hurtling towards her should she reveal that she'd been intimate with a Dixon brother. Maggie wouldn't understand, wouldn't even give her the opportunity to explain before vilifying Daryl. She wouldn't care how he made her feel, or that he wasn't nearly so bad as he and the rest of this town would have her believe. All Maggie would see is that her little sister had been taken advantage of by the resident redneck asshole, because as far as she's concerned, Beth can't possibly discern for herself who she should be spending time with.

But Beth likes Daryl—more than likes. He's withdrawn and sometimes churlish, but at his core he's a considerate and honourable man. It's not just attraction that keeps her going back for more, though she could go mad for wanting him the way she does. He makes for good company, and she finds herself missing him randomly throughout the day. In class, she counts down the minutes until she can see him again. She'll think of something funny and immediately want to tell him. And lying in bed at night, she anxiously wonders if he's thinking of her too. She still hasn't returned his vest yet, keeping it at the bottom of her drawer like some sort of security blanket. She knows she'll have to give it back eventually—he's got to be wondering where it is by now—but she's relieved in the knowledge that it's there in case she ever needs to feel that sense of calm that only he can bring her. It might seem ridiculous, to be so invested in this—relationship?—so quickly, but whatever is happening between her and Daryl feels right. As natural as breathing.

"You don't know him," she murmurs.

"And Daddy doesn't know about this?"

"No, and you're not gonna tell him." Beth can see by the look on Maggie's face that she's gearing up to argue, so she stops her before she can start. "I mean it! After all the covering I've done for you and Glenn, you owe me."

Maggie grows petulantly silent again, and it's only when the tractor turns onto the main road, heading back towards the farm, that she speaks again. "You are being careful, right?"

"You really have to ask that? You found the…_condom_," Beth reminds in a whisper, covering Judith's ears. She's going to start talking any day now, and Beth would be completely mortified if that was the first word she were to pick up on.

"That's not what I meant."

Beth honestly doesn't know how to answer that question, so she's thankful when she doesn't have to. Moments later, the tractor reaches the farm and she and Maggie both have to climb down to help the kids off of the wagon. She purposefully avoids looking at her sister, not wanting to give Maggie any invitation to pick up their conversation where it left off.

Beth knows she's acting foolish—she's only known him for a few weeks, and they've only slept together that one time—but somehow she feels a deeper connection to him than she ever did with Jimmy in the three years they dated. Reckless though it might seem, she's well on track to being happy, and she's not willing to let such a meddlesome convention like time, derail her.

* * *

Today they're watching a Gregory Peck film of Daryl's choosing. He doesn't say much, but she doesn't let that bother her. Some people communicated better by letting their actions speak, and Daryl was such a person. He'd voluntarily sat next to her on the bed, which she considers to be decent enough progress. Then she was happily surprised when he handed her a bowl of jellybeans, muttering about her "damn sweet-tooth". She hides her glee the best she can, realizing that this is probably the closest they've ever come to being on a date.

"I've never met anyone, who likes the black ones," Beth observes halfway through the film, watching him pop the jellybean into his mouth. She finds it funny how often he gripes about _her_ sweet-tooth, when he alone has managed to eat more than half the bowl of jellybeans!

He shrugs and reaches for another one, his eyes still fixed on the movie.

"What was the last movie you went to see in theatres?" she asks, suddenly curious. He talks so little about himself, how can she not be?

"The one with all the robots from space," he says, chewing.

"Transformers?" she clarifies, not having expected that. "Which one?"

"Hell if I know," he says, shrugging again. "It was in 3D."

The thought of stoic Daryl wearing 3D glasses sends her into a fit of giggles. She tries to calm herself when she realizes he's now looking at her, but just seeing his face makes her picture it, and that catapults her into hysterics again. He doesn't seem annoyed with her, but he's looking at her in a way he hasn't before. She's not sure how to describe the expression on his face, but it's not without his usual intensity. Her laughter dies down. When they had first met, it was this precise intensity that she'd found so intimidating. But at this very moment, she only hopes he won't look away.

She takes in a breath to say something, though she's not sure what, when Daryl leans over and brushes his lips against hers in a cautious caress. A soft sound, something between a sigh and a moan, leaves her. She sways toward his heat, the touch of his breath. He gently kisses her again, and it's as if he's trying to resist himself. With the soft brush of her fingertips against his jaw, coaxing him silently to continue, he eventually surrenders to it. He deepens the kiss, and his hands, just as large and rough as she remembers, cup her jaw and tilt her head just so. He tastes almost the same as before, with the added flavour of black liquorice.

Summoning all of her courage, she moves from where she's seated and repositions herself to straddle his lap, never once breaking the kiss. Tingling awareness races through her in this new position astride him. She's been thinking about this for the last few weeks, and now that the moment is here, her heart flutters and the familiar throb of desire between her legs intensifies. He breaks the kiss, gasping when she grinds down lightly, teasingly against his growing hardness. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, and her hands grip strands of hair at the nape of his neck, urging him to please continue.

This seems to unlock his passion, because Daryl's mouth slants across hers again. His hands find her hips, which are rocking insistently against him, and he helps her find a slower, steadier rhythm. Feeling almost dizzy, she lets herself be carried away by the wet heat of his mouth. She grinds down harder at the precise moment his pelvis surges upwards, and the edges of reality begin to blur again like they did atop that pool table. The seam of her jeans is pressing against her clit just so, sending delightful shivers through her.

She arches her back and his arms wrap around her middle, keeping her close. This burning need, this ache can only be remedied by him. She'd spent the first year of her relationship with Jimmy dry humping on the couch in his basement, and it was never anything like this. She recognizes the cresting tension low in her belly. Her hands grasp at his back, fingers bunching his flannel shirt. Soon release is within reach, and the grasping, almost greedy hunger for it, is gnawing at her now. His arms tighten around her, crushing her to him as she continues her desperate gyrating. Engulfed in his warm, sinewy strength, she's not only set ablaze by physical pleasure—she's safe.

And so deeply connected.

Tearing away from the heady contact of his mouth, she cries out, a loud wail. The world contracted to one shining point, this one man. All else fell away. Pleasure so acute explodes through her, it borders on being painful. Beth writhes, mindless in the throes of it. Daryl groans watching her come apart, and though she's not entirely sure when her hands found their way under his shirt, her nails dig sharply into the skin of his back.

In ragged sobs, she is able to catch her breath again. Her heartbeat slows as the wild pleasure retreats, and she slows her rocking, prolonging the aftershocks of her climax. Daryl, still hard in the confines of his jeans, hisses appreciatively. She nuzzles into his neck, pressing lingering kisses there as his hips ruts upwards, seeking his own satisfaction.

Stretching her fingers wide to feel more of his bared skin, she freezes when she feels the thin gnarled lines of poorly healed scars. They crisscross his back like painful, unfinished games of tic tac toe. She halts in the movements of her pelvis, earning a frustrated grunt from him.

Rather than pity or sympathy, she feels reassured. That initial connection she felt that night in the bar, and her growing fondness for him ever since, feels more grounded somehow. He _does_ know what it is to be permanently scarred. He's stopped kissing her and is now panting into her neck, his hot, moist breath accelerating. Coming out of his lust induced haze, he now seems to realize that the tips of her fingers are tracing the welts marring his skin. He leans back, his stormy eyes looking at her with a mixture of betrayal and shame.

She gives him an intense look of her own, one of absolute sincerity. "You're so beautiful," she whispers, one of her hands leaving his back to brush sweaty strands of hair from his face.

Stiffening, he all but shoves her off of him. He leaps up from the bed, yanking his shirt down as he does. No longer bare-chested, he starts pacing back and forth in front of her. He's quite obviously panicked, and Beth wishes she could calm him, but he doesn't seem to want her reassurance. In fact, the anger lacing his anxiety appears to be directed towards her, if his glare is any indication.

"Why are you here?" He's finally stopped pacing, but he stands in front of her agitated.

"You already know why," she answers, too chicken to say it aloud.

"Well, you're shit outta luck cuz it aint gonna happen," Daryl all but snarls at her, and she tries not to show how heartbreaking those words are.

A dozen arguments rush through Beth's mind, each one ardent and indisputable, but she can't manage to verbalize any of them. Instead, all she can do is stare at the now blue TV screen and try to swallow the hard lump forming in her throat. "Please, don't say that," she finally manages in a weak voice.

"'S not like it aint true," he says, ruthlessly.

"Daryl, I'm sorry, ok? I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't patronize me," he grumbles. "I aint some stupid kid."

"Then stop acting so damn childish," she snaps, reflexively. She knows that she's upset him by unintentionally unearthing his painful past, but it's not as if it's all that big a surprise to her—Will Dixon was known around these parts for being a mean drunk.

"You're one to talk. What d'you call comin' round here all the time, throwin' yourself at me and wantin' what you can't have?"

This is playing out worse than that night in the bar. Then he'd just left, leaving her feeling utterly rejected. This is more than that. This brand of rejection comes along with a healthy dose of humiliation. Torn between being hurt and being angry, her next sentence settles somewhere between.

"That's not fair! It's not like you even tried to stop me," she points out, fixing her rumpled appearance the best she could. "Look, you're even still hard! You wanted it just as bad as I did."

"You don't know what you want," he continues as if she'd never spoken, but the grinding of his teeth and the embarrassed flush flaring across his skin, indicate his own embarrassment.

"No, that's you, that's not me," she rebuts. "I know what I want: you."

"You're eighteen, Beth, and you barely know me." He says it as if those are good enough reasons not to fall in love with somebody. Logically, she knows he's right, but that doesn't stop her from feeling the way she does. She still wants him; as her confidant, as her friend, as her lover. If it were as simple as getting over it, she would've never have approached him that day on the side of the road.

"I don't care," she counters, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill over. If she starts crying now, she'll never be able to forgive herself. "You don't get to tell me how to feel."

"Maybe not, but I don't gotta keep coddling you neither." He throws open the motel room door, and gestures for her to walk through it. "Now get the fuck out."

She reels back as if he's slapped her. She wants to yell at him for acting like this. How is it that he can run from this, and she just can't? Why does she care as much as she does? The connection between them, has until this point been liberating, but at present it feels like a chain around her neck.

"Fine."

Looking at Daryl is not an option. The anger in his eyes makes her skin feel hot and itchy, as if bugs are crawling all over her body. She swallows back the sob that arises and walks out the door, feeling accomplished when she's able to do so with a straight face. It's when he slams the door behind her, that she flinches.

She moves in a daze, barely remembering the ride home by the time she's made the trip. She feels like such an idiot, letting herself believe that he could see her as anything but some swooning school girl with a crush. When she gets home, she goes directly upstairs and into her bedroom. Still fully dressed, she climbs into bed and brings the covers up over her head.

After weeks of being within reach of happiness, she's right back where she started.

* * *

**This is unbetaed, so feel free to point out any mistakes you may find. Hope you liked it! Please review.**


	5. Hang Down Your Head

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Walking Dead franchise. Any recognizable characters/locations/dialogue do not belong to me, and are being used for entertainment purposes.**

* * *

Like at the end of most school days, Beth heads towards her bus on tired feet. Jimmy follows behind her, attempting once again to make friendly conversation.

He'd been the one to end their relationship, citing the reason for the break up was because they were better off as friends. It's not that Beth doesn't appreciate his efforts, but as far as she's concerned, there's too much water under the bridge between them to ever have any hope of crossing it again. She's a different person now. How are she and Jimmy supposed relate to each other after the tragic events that took place subsequent to the break up? How could he possibly understand? No, he was just a stranger to her now, one playing at being her friend.

When she catches sight of _him_ up ahead, she promptly stops walking, Jimmy nearly collides with her.

There Daryl stands, leaning against his bike, a cigarette dangling from between his lips. Smoke whirls about his face, adding to his mysterious air. When his eyes meet hers, he ducks his head almost bashfully. It's obvious that he's waiting for her—what other reason would he have for loitering in a high school parking lot? She says goodbye to Jimmy without so much as looking at him, her sole focus now on where Daryl's stubbing out his cigarette.

"What're you doing here?" she asks, in lieu of a greeting as she draws nearer him.

"Lookin' for you," he grumbles, shrugging his shoulders.

"Why?" She readjusts the strap of her knapsack over her shoulder. "Did you think of some more really hurtful things to say?"

"I was an asshole," he concedes, sort of ducking his head, unable to meet her eye directly.

"Yeah, you were, but that's not an apology."

His mouth screws up in a grimace. "You _would_ make this hard."

"Yeah well, I'm not some doormat you can walk all over." She stubs the ground with the toe of her shoe, as she speaks. Her words are bolder than she feels, but she doesn't dare buy it back. "You owe me a real apology."

He eyes her for a long moment, then bows his head. She almost turns on her heel and walks away, assuming that she'd asked too much, when he finally mumbles out the words, "…I'm sorry."

She nods, accepting his apology, but there's more she has to say. "You know, I thought I'd be satisfied with whatever you were willing to give me, but I'm not…I like you, Daryl, and I'm pretty sure you like me. So, I've had enough of this horseshit."

Her words coupled with the fervor seeping into her tone, seem to set him back. He says nothing, not that that's any great surprise to her. He merely looks up at her from under his furrowed brow, as if stunned into a sort of submission. Finally he nods—just once—but she's not exactly sure what he's responding to.

* * *

"…I'll call down to the garage and ask them to send someone over to have a look at the tractor later this week…Pass the corn, Bethy?" her dad asks, pointing to where the serving tray was out of reach.

Beth offers him the platter, waiting patiently as he used the prongs to serve himself a cob. She then places the tray back on the table and picked up her fork once more, returning to the task of pushing her potatoes from one side of her plate to the other. It required very little of her concentration, yet it was enough of a distraction that she was able to actively avoid having to look at Maggie, whose shrewd gaze had her sitting that much straighter in her seat. She doesn't need the added weight of her sister's judgment hanging over her right now, not with the lead-like feeling already settled in the pit of her stomach. It's not as if she's never been dishonest before, but there is something especially wicked about lying to Hershel Greene.

"So, sweetheart, how was school?"

"Fine," she answers the question plainly.

"Why were you late getting home?" Maggie interrogates. Beth finally looks at her only to glare.

With a hopeful glance, her dad interjects before Beth can respond. "Are you rejoining the choir?"

She finds herself nodding and smiling. Her parents had both always encouraged her musical talent, and when she'd abandoned choir after her mother's passing, her dad had been particularly disappointed. His face is lit up happily now, and Beth forces down the bile that rises in her throat.

"That's fantastic!"

"Yeah, it's great," Maggie adds flatly, obviously not buying it.

"So, who was the guy on the motorcycle?" Patricia asks suddenly from further down the table. "He a friend of yours?"

"Yeah," Beth says, looking back down at her plate again. "He was headed out this way and offered me a ride home on his brother's bike."

"Is he just a friend? He looked a bit old for you," Patricia notes. Ever since the passing of Beth's mother, she's taken it upon herself to play the role of mother hen, looking out for the last chick in the nest.

Beth shrugs, feeling Maggie's eyes boring into her. Technically, Daryl was a bit old for Maggie, and therefore probably too old for Beth—not that that really made any difference to her.

"What does he ride?" Otis asks, as if sensing her agitation.

She lets loose a little chuckle. Beth's expertise hardly pertained to motorcycles, but she was nonetheless grateful for the change in topic. "I don't really know but it was loud and fast, if that helps."

"I dunno if I like that," her dad smiles wryly, his eyes concerned.

"He was careful," she assures him, her guilt growing with every word

"Which time?" Maggie says under her breath, which lands her a swift, discreet kick to her shin. "Ah!—I mean...is he in the choir too?"

"He's got the voice of an angel," Beth bites out, rising to the proffered challenge.

She fights back a blush when she thinks back to that night on the pool table and what his voice in her ear had sounded like. Trying to distract herself by stuffing her mouth full with what's on her plate, conveniently keeps her from waxing embarrassing poetry about that deep, rasping drawl of his. Between it and the wings sewn into his vest, he very well could have been an angel—though most likely a fallen one.

The adults glance back and forth between her and Maggie, catching on to their animosity. It is clear to them that they have quite obviously missed something, but rather than ask and potentially open up a can of worms, they all wisely keep quiet and redirect their attention to their dinner plates.

* * *

Two miles down Fairburn road, he arrives at the Greene family farm bright and early to be met by the farmhand, Otis, who seems to already know who he is if the look of apprehension on his face is any indication. Led around the back of the house where the tractor waits to be seen to, Daryl is left alone to work. It's an easy fix, only taking about an hour of his time. So, when he's finished he heads towards the main house to talk to Otis again.

He finds Beth sitting on the porch steps with a guitar in her lap. She's strumming a familiar tune, though he can't quite name it. He reaches into his back pocket for his pack of smokes and his lighter. He coaxes out a cigarette, sticks it between his lips, and watches as she absentmindedly tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She's frowning in concentration as she tries to reposition her fingers to find the correct chord. He's entranced by that look of pure concentration in her eyes. He's tempted to call out to her, but the very idea of drawing that intense focus onto him is so terrifying, that he swallows back her name and lights up his cigarette instead. Her flaxen hair, lit up like a halo in the sunlight, is drawn over her left shoulder in a loose ponytail. He's entranced by the sight of the smooth skin of her bared neck and nearly shudders at memory of her lips on his throat. The sudden urge to draw her to him and have her as he did before, to press a kiss against her pulse point, is strong. He lights his cigarette, bitterly reminding himself why that's not a good idea. She's a habit he needs to break before he himself is left broken. He starts to slowly back away.

"Just gonna cut and run without so much as a 'hello', huh?"

Caught, he ducks his head bashfully and kicks at the gravel beneath his boots. "Didn't want to chance your sister coming at me with a shotgun," he says around the cigarette still dangling between his lips.

"Well, lucky you she's working this afternoon." Her face lights up with smile, obviously humoured by his wariness. He flicks ash from the end of his cigarette, and nods at her guitar.

"What're you playing?" he asks, forcing himself to make conversation so he's not just standing there staring at her like some creep.

"Sweet Child O' Mine—it was the last song my brother taught me to play," she says, her voice trailing off with that revelation. She clears her throat. "What're you doing here? I'm assuming you weren't looking for me…"

He shrugs. "I was here to fix the tractor."

"And did you?"

He bobs his head and awkwardly shuffles his feet. He's never been particularly good at making small talk, always preferring silence as an alternative. Beth was different, though. She was her father's daughter and thereby far too friendly for her own good. He doesn't know how to act around her, and part of him wishes he'd never spotted her to begin with. But, then again, the warmth of the smile she'd greeted him with is almost enough to make making an ass out of himself seem worth it.

"Beth, I could use some help getting started on lunch—oh, sorry to interrupt," Patricia says, as she comes out onto the porch, the screen door swinging shut behind her.

"Its fine, Patricia," Beth answers. "I'll be inside in just a minute."

"Will your...friend...be joining us?"

Daryl doesn't dare meet the woman's eye, knowing he'd find only suspicion and disapproval in her expression. He stubs the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot. "No," he answers firmly before Beth can even think to invite him. "I've finished with the tractor and I've really got to get going."

He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts to turn away, heading towards the pickup truck. He can practically feel Beth's disappointment following him as he goes.

"I'll see you later?" she calls tentatively, not appearing to care what Patricia makes of this little scene.

He knows he should dismiss her, but he can't seem to bring himself to do it, never entirely. "You know where to find me," he says over his shoulder.

* * *

Maybe he shouldn't be as surprised as he is when she turns up at his motel room door, but he can't help but be taken aback by her presence. He would've thought her Daddy would've been all over her case about associating with the likes of a Dixon. But whether it's defiance or ignorance that's prompted her, she stands in his doorway wearing cowboy boots, a braid through her hair and handmade bracelets that all somehow make her look younger than she is.

She blinks several times before flashing him a winsome grin. "Are you gonna invite me in or do I need some sort of a secret password?"

Despite the nagging voice of reason in the back of his mind telling him not to, he opens the door wider, steps to the side and lets her in.

She plops down on the lumpy, mould-ridden sofa, takes off her boots and curls up as if it was and had always been her preferred spot. With her feet tucked up underneath her and her chin propped by the heel of her hand, an expectant air hangs about her. He cautiously takes a seat on the other end of the couch.

"You're not going to offer me a beverage?" she asks, teasingly.

"Uhh...sure," he falters. The truth is he has nothing to offer her except tap water or a warm beer—the mini-fridge is on the fritz. "What do you want?"

She smiles at him, which eases the tension somewhat. "You don't host much, do you?"

"Only the Duke and Duchess once a month," he says flippantly.

She lets out a little giggle, but rather than being irritated by it, the sound warms something in his chest. She's not laughing at him—not really—and he instinctively knows that. She's not like the girls he went to school with; sniggering behind his back about how dirty and poor he is. Beth just sits with him, smiling pleasantly; not pushing him to talk or put on some act. She's been here less than five minutes and already she's made herself perfectly at home—something he finds to be both terrifying and exciting.

She seems so ready to call him 'friend', despite the fact that they barely know each other. Maybe, it was something good girls' like her felt obligated to do after doing something so sinful with a virtual stranger. But Daryl didn't believe that guilt was what inspired Beth's behaviour towards him. He was moreso inclined to chalk it up to what appeared to be her inherently affable nature.

The silence stretches out the longer they look each other over. Finding it hard to look at her without remembering what she'd looked like sans clothes, Daryl finally clears his throat and breaks the silence before Beth comes to her senses and leaves.

"You hungry?" he offers tentatively.

* * *

The knock on the door startles them both. Daryl jumps up and heads towards the door, not daring to look at her. He was like some skittish animal—scampering off whenever he felt remotely threatened by her closeness. As Daryl opens the door Beth feels her breath catch in her throat when she sees who's on the other side.

Glenn, his face still healing from their last encounter, nearly drops the pizza he's holding. "That'll be $15.83—hey! You're that redneck douchebag from the bar!"

Beth, not bothering to mute 'the Simpsons' rerun they'd been watching on TV, jumps up from the couch and hurries over to where Daryl's getting yelled at.

"Glenn, please, just—!"

"Beth?!" His eyes, even the swollen one, widen when he catches sight of her. "What the hell are you doing here? With him?"

"Calm down, ok? Everything's fine," she assures him, from over Daryl's shoulder. "I'm just here visiting—"

"The guy who beat the crap out of me?"

"...A friend," she says, firmly. She creeps into the doorway between the two men, ready to shove them apart should either try to start another fight. "Glenn, this is Daryl Dixon."

The younger man scoffs derisively at the surname. "I should've guessed," he mutters under his breath.

Her mouth draws into a frown and a disapproving crease makes its way across her brow. She knows Glenn's reasons for disliking Daryl are perfectly valid, and under normal circumstances, she would naturally have taken his side. But Glenn, for all his wonderful qualities, could also be a tad short sighted at times. He didn't see what she did when she looked at Daryl—a man ready to fold on the hand that life had dealt him. All he saw was another drunken thug like his father and brother before him.

Beth takes the pizza box from Glenn and rests a placating hand on Daryl's bicep, seeing the tension across his shoulders. "Daryl, can you give me a minute alone with Glenn?"

His head turns slightly so he can look at her out the corner of his eye. For a moment, he looks like he's about to say something, vocalizing the betrayal in his expression.

"Please?" she gently insists, while stroking her thumb along the skin of his muscle to soothe him. The scowl on his face remains but he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the money. He slips the cash into Beth's hand, takes the pizza box, and with a grunt he stomps away, giving them the privacy she requested.

Beth shoves the cash into Glenn's chest, pushes him away from the door, and follows him further out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. She sees Glenn's eyes assessing her relaxed appearance with Maggie-like judgement, and it adds to her irritation. She puts a hand on her cocked hip, and raises an expectant eyebrow at him.

"Do you have something to say?" she challenges, jutting out her chin defiantly.

Glenn seems reluctant to incur the infamous wrath of a Greene girl, but nonetheless he speaks his mind, for he is bound by the sense of big-brotherly duty that his relationship with Maggie has given him. "A few things, actually. One—I wanna know why you're here; two—you're too young to be in some guy's motel room; and three—do you even _know_ who this guy is?"

She doesn't care for his tone of voice, but she lets him finish speaking. "I'm not a little girl, Glenn. I can go wherever I want, with whomever I like, and do whatever I please. And—not that it's any of your business—but Daryl happens to be a friend. I'm just visiting him here...satisfied?"

Glenn shakes his head at her, as if he can't believe her naiveté.

Beth sighs. "Look, I know he's not your favourite person, especially after what he did to you back at the bar—"

"That's only the tip of the iceberg, Beth!" he whispers harshly. "This guy is nothing but trouble!"

"You don't know that," she defends. "You caught him on a bad day, Glenn! Now, I'm not saying that's any sort of excuse, but—"

"He's a _Dixon_!" Glenn exclaims, seeming a little less concerned about volume all of a sudden.

"I know that!" she responds just as vehemently. She truly hopes Daryl isn't listening to this conversation on the other side of the door.

"You know that and you—Beth, what the hell are you thinking? What would your Dad think?"

Beth takes a step towards him, managing to be menacing in spite of the height difference between them. "He's not gonna know, because you're not going to say anything. Not to him and certainly not to Maggie!"

"You want me to lie?"

"For all the covering I've had to do for you and Maggie, you owe me this much!" She jabs a finger in his face. "You never saw me here, understand?"

He glares at her, but any argument seems to abruptly die on his lips. "...Fine. I never saw you here...and I'm not ever going to catch you here again, right?"

Beth stops herself from rolling her eyes at his stipulation, and shakes her head. He wouldn't catch her here again—she'd be more careful next time.

"Then...I promise to keep my mouth shut."

"Good," Beth says, reaching behind her to turn the handle. She opens the door and backs away inside the room. "Now, I think it's time you got going."

He fists the pizza money. "What? No tip?" he says sarcastically.

"Nope—the service was horrible." She smiles sweetly at him and slams the door shut in face.

* * *

Daryl says nothing the entire time they sit hovered over the coffee table, eating the now cold pizza. In fact, he's gone back to not even meeting her eye. She feels as if the few minutes she spent getting scolded by Glenn in the hallway, have cost her what ground she had managed to cover with Daryl beforehand. She's not sure what else she can do to put him at ease, so she endures the awkward silence the best she can and reaches for another slice.

For his part, Daryl tries his damnedest not to attract attention to himself. He stares at the television screen, not paying the least bit of attention to what he's pretending to watch, while sitting as still as a statue. He has the strong urge to throw his arm over the back of the couch, and it's utterly bewildering. It's too bold a move for him to make; too inviting a gesture and by far too intimate. He's not her boyfriend, he's just some guy—a random one night stand. Yet, when she looks and smiles at him the way she has been since arriving, he feels different—dare he think it—special, even. He doesn't feel like a social pariah, like something to be scraped off of the bottom of her shoe; like a Dixon. Under her gaze, he feels like he's never felt before in his life: like a man.

And for that reason, he summons every ounce of courage he can muster. Too slow to be detected, he starts to lift his arm up and over, and then...another interruption.

The disposable cell phone on his night stand starts ringing, and rather than ignore it, he leaps from his seat to go answer it. He's almost relieved to have been saved from potentially making a fool of himself. He'd listened through the door as she had declared him her _friend _to the Asian kid, and he doesn't know how well it would have gone over had he made a pass at her after that.

He takes a steadying breath, and answers the phone. "Hello?" he grunts.

"Guess who, little brother."

The sound of Merle's voice is like being doused by a bucket of cold water.

* * *

She gets home from school the next day, her mind consumed by thoughts of Daryl. Riding the school bus with the likes of Jimmy was suddenly inadequate, after riding home on the back of Daryl's bike. With her front pressed against his back, her inner thighs bracketing his hips, and her arms wrapped around his middle; she'd found herself missing the..."closeness" they'd shared that night on the pool table even more. It seemed unladylike to go _seducing_ him a second time, so she hopes that upon her next visit to his motel room, he'd take a hint and be bold enough to initiate something. For a moment, she'd been convinced he was going to make a move, but that call had scared him off. After he'd hung up on whoever he'd stepped outside to talk to, he'd become awfully cagey—or cagier than he typically was, anyway. That seemed to be the way with Daryl: two steps forwards, one step back. It was frustrating as hell, and yet part of Beth undeniably appreciated the challenge of it.

She would prove just as stubborn as Daryl.

Climbing the stairs, hurrying to drop her school bag off in her bedroom, she almost jumps a foot in the air when she catches sight of Maggie waiting for her.

"Maggie, what are you doing in here? Aren't you s'posed to be at work?" Beth asks, dropping her knapsack to the floor. She tucks loose strands of hair that have escaped from her ponytail behind her ear, and makes to approach where Maggie is perched at the bottom of her bed. She stops dead when she sees what's bundled in her sister's lap.

Pursing her lips, Maggie stares her down with an expression that dances between being concerned and livid. She throws the leather vest at Beth, practically whipping it at her.

"You mind telling me what the fuck you're doing at a motel with a Dixon?!"

Beth holds the vest to her chest protectively and silently curses the name of that traitor, Glenn Rhee.

* * *

**Please review!**


	6. All the World is Greene

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Walking Dead franchise. Any recognizable characters/locations/dialogue do not belong to me, and are being used for entertainment purposes. Author's Note: So, I figure a chapter once a month isn't too bad. I tried to update sooner and just found it to be a great, big, unnecessary aggravation. Right now I have a lot on my plate, medical wise, but I am trying very hard to find time to work on the story.**

* * *

"You've been going through my stuff?"

"I was looking for the sweater you borrowed and I came across this." She holds up Daryl's vest, displaying the angel wings. Beth bounds forward and snatches away the vest from her sister's clutches. She then carefully tucks it back in the bottom drawer of her dresser, where she'd had it stashed away before Maggie had come along snooping.

"I was on the phone with Glenn and he reluctantly filled in the rest of the blanks," Maggie continues. "By the way, where do you get off asking my boyfriend to lie to me?"

"The same way you do spying on me," Beth snaps, and goes to her hamper to dig out the borrowed sweater.

"Don't be paranoid—no one's spying on you!"

"Here!" Beth finds the aforementioned garment and throws it at her sister almost violently. She's getting really fed up with being treated this way, like a child. "Then why does it feel like you're watching every move I make?"

"I'm only looking out for you!"

"Oh, is that what we're calling it?"

"You've been acting really different lately, and I'm just worried."

"You don't have to be—I'm not an idiot!" Beth nearly shouts.

Maggie stands up from where she'd been seated on the edge of the bed and crosses her arms over her chest. "Well, what do you call having sex with a Dixon on top of a pool table? Because if that's not stupid, then I don't know what is." Her voice is considerably lower, and yet her tone is no less cutting.

"…His name is _Daryl_," Beth says, pointedly. "…And you don't know the first thing about him."

Maggie scoffs and rolls her green eyes. "But you do?"

Beth puts her hands on her hips defiantly. In all fairness, she _hasn't _known Daryl for very long. She's technically better acquainted with his reputation than she is with the man himself. But she'd like to think that, if nothing else, during their few encounters she's come to _understand _him. Shouldn't that count for something?

"This is the same guy that beat the crap out of Glenn for trying to keep him from driving drunk."

Beth looks away guiltily. "He'd had a bad night," she defends weakly.

"He's dangerous, Beth!" Maggie insists. Her eyes widen with a renewed apprehension, as though something has unexpectedly occurred to her. "You haven't—did he give you something?"

Beth shakes her head, not comprehending her meaning.

"_Drugs_, Beth. Did he give you any?"

With an aggravated groan, Beth goes to the bed where Maggie had been seated, falls back onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling. "No," she says firmly. "How could you think that?"

"Well, he's a Dixon! It's not exactly a huge leap—!"

"Of me, Maggie! Do you really think I'd be so dumb, especially after what happened with Shawn...?" Beth angrily cuts in. Her older brother Shawn had been in away at college when he'd died in an accident, driving home high as a kite. It had been the first in a string of heartbreaks her family had endured.

"Well…" Maggie throws out her arms in defeat, the mentioning of their brother making her all the more uncertain. "I dunno what you're capable of anymore! Having sex with strangers, lying to Daddy, keeping secrets—you're acting like a completely different person!"

Beth sits up so swiftly that Maggie almost steps back as if expecting her to launch herself across the room. "It's not your job to monitor me; I'm not a little girl anymore and you're not my mother!"

Appearing to have stunned her older sister into silence once and for all, Beth takes the opportunity to try and reclaim some composure before continuing. "…Look, the bottom line is: I like Daryl, and he likes me. You want to rat me out to Daddy, then you can go ahead—"

Maggie takes three, quick strides towards the bedroom door as if she's about to do just that.

"—But don't forget the amount of secrets I've kept for you." Maggie hesitates at this, looking back meaningfully at Beth.

"…Fine. I won't tell Daddy…for now," she promises in a low voice. "But this guy, Daryl, is a time bomb waiting to go off. You need to end it now, because if you don't and you're left broken—well, this family has been through enough without you pulling another stunt like the last time."

And with that Maggie schleps out of the room, slamming the door hard enough behind her that Beth flinches.

* * *

Whether it is out of sheer spite, or the niggling fear that Maggie may be right, Beth had wound up calling Daryl's motel room to ask him to meet up with her the following night. She'd specifically chosen Hatlin's as the rendezvous point, knowing her sister wouldn't be working. Then she'd told her Daddy that she'd be spending the night at a friend's house, making plans for prom. She'd even made a show of hefting out her big messenger bag over one shoulder. Little did her dad know that instead of the typical gear she would usually pack for a sleepover with the girls—pajamas, movies, candy, etc.—all she had stowed away inside the bag was a fresh set of clothes and a leather vest with shabby looking angel wings sewn into the back.

When Daryl had appeared, albeit late, Beth had heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn't sounded too thrilled about seeing her over the phone, and she hadn't been entirely sure whether or not he'd end up showing his face at all. But here he was, sitting across from her now with a suspicious expression on his gruff face.

"So…" Beth says, when the awkward silence between them has stretched out too long. "Do you want to play a round of pool?"

She notices a slight hitch in his breathing when his eyes flit briefly in the direction of the billiards table. She couldn't resist teasing him a little, but his embarrassment is outshone by a flash of naked desire. The look he gives her is so heated that she shifts restlessly in her seat, tempted to haul him to the bathroom and into the nearest stall for a repeat performance. If they are ever going to sleep together again, she's no doubt that it would be just as impromptu and impassioned as it had been the first time. But she wants to be seduced this time; for him to take the lead and _show_ her that what's happening between them—whatever it is—isn't just her imagination. She wants him to want her in the same overwhelming, powerful way he had before—even if that's only half as much as she does him.

From the level of intensity that accompanies his gaze whenever he lets it rest upon her, she's pretty sure she's _not_ the only one feeling the weight of this attraction. But for whatever reason, Daryl is decidedly keeping his distance. Even with her hands resting outstretched on the table just scant inches away from his own, he doesn't make a move except to clench his fists tight in resistance. She wishes there were something she could do to put him at ease but somehow in the dimly lit bar, just a few feet from where he'd thrown her over the brink of ecstasy, the renewed sense of wariness he has of her seems unlikely to dissipate.

They continue to sit in uncomfortable silence until Beth can't take it anymore. She reaches into her pocket for spare change. "How do you feel about 'Me and Bobby McGee'?" she asks, nodding towards the jukebox.

Misunderstanding, his brow furrows in confusion. "Who?"

A grin breaks out over her face. She finds his ignorance surprisingly endearing. "No—it's a Janis Joplin song…do you mind?"

He shakes his head, strands of greasy hair falling further in his face, obscuring his expression from her view. She goes to get up from her seat, but he suddenly stops her, placing his large, rough hand on her forearm. She feels a warm tingle along her skin where his surprisingly gentle grip touches her.

"You want something to drink?" he asks, letting go of her.

She nods shyly, and continues towards the jukebox, taking deep, steadying breaths as she goes.

* * *

The woman behind the bar greets Daryl with a smirk. "You and Beth, huh?"

"It ain't like that," he says automatically. To be honest, he's not sure one way or another whether he and Beth are…involved in that way, but he doesn't want to have to endure Carol's potential disapproval.

Carol smiles patiently at him from behind the bar. "So, what _is_ it like then?"

He shuffles his feet awkwardly and half shrugs in response. The truth is that he really doesn't know why Beth is wasting her time with him. On the one hand, that night on the pool table was incredible and he's up for a repeat performance if she is. But otherwise, he doesn't know why she isn't chasing after some other guy—someone closer to her own age; who's well brought up, with more to offer.

He's just ordered their drinks when his phone, which he keeps in his back pocket, starts buzzing again. On instinct, he reaches for it, only to hesitate before answering. He knows without looking at the caller ID who it is, and he really doesn't want to talk to his brother right now. He doesn't need his Merle's voice in his ear, distracting him when Beth's company already has him feeling this unsteady.

"Wise choice," Carol says, fetching a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar.

"What is?"

The older woman shakes her head at his poor attempt at feigning innocence. Carol knows him too well, and could probably tell by the look of dread in his expression who had been calling him.

"Merle may be your brother, but he's not good for you," Carol says, as she pours a shot for the man a few stools down the bar from him.

"But Beth is?" he asks doubtfully. Something about the girl seems too good to be true, and he feels constantly on edge in her presence, waiting for the bottom to inevitably fall out.

"She might be," Carol says, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the counter. "You won't know unless you give her a chance." She then turns to fill Daryl's order, leaving him to ruminate on her words.

Unwilling to endure any more of Carol's observations, Daryl takes their drinks over to their table without delay. Beth smiles at him from the jukebox when he places her Shirley Temple down in front of her seat. He can't help but cringe at her drink order, reminded once again just how young and girlish she is; and how much of a dirty, old man he must seem in her company. Leaving behind his own beer and heading for the exit, he pauses to provide Beth with an explanation as he passes her.

"I need a smoke," he grumbles.

* * *

Beth had almost followed Daryl when he'd headed outside to the parking lot but instead she'd sat back down, giving him his moment of privacy while also hoping he wouldn't just take off and leave her. She hated to doubt him, but he'd seemed almost eager when he'd stepped outside, and it was because of that keenness that she couldn't help but wonder if he wouldn't abandon her there without so much as a goodbye.

"Hi Beth," Carol greeted from the next table, where she was bent over it clearing away empty beer bottles.

Carol had worked at the bar for years and had been the one to train Maggie when she'd started working here. Her short hair was prematurely gray and there were tired bags under her eyes, making her seem older. She was always nice and friendly, but still had a general air of weariness about her that one couldn't help but notice.

"Hey Carol." She gives the woman a little wave. "I didn't know you were working tonight."

"Sophia's spending the night at the Grimes' house, so I figured I'd pick up another shift," Carol replies, her eyes flitting to Daryl's vacated seat. "You're here with Daryl?"

"Yeah, you know him?" Beth asks, having spotted them earlier, talking over the bar.

The older woman nods. "Sure—we've been friends for a while now."

"Really?"

"He's a bit rough around the edges," Carol says, a fond smile playing on her lips as she speaks. "But he's not as bad as people seem to think—himself included."

"I think so too…Sometimes, the way he looks at me…it's as if he's expecting me to be a bitch to him," Beth finds herself admitting.

Her upbringing almost has her apologizing for her language, but rather than scold her, Carol nods her head understandingly. She seems particularly focused on wiping down the table with the bar rag she'd had draped over her shoulder.

"Sounds about right," she says, her voice thickening. "See, Beth, people like Daryl are like dogs. They get kicked around enough that they start thinking they've done something to deserve it."

Growing up in a small, one-Starbucks-town like theirs, Beth is not ignorant of Carol's ugly history with her late husband. Ed had been arguably just as mean as Will Dixon. She can easily recall seeing the older woman at church every week while she was growing up, sporting fresh bruises. She also remembers when the news about Ed's death had reached their house, how her mother had breathed a sigh of relief that two souls as sweet as Carol and Sophia, had managed to survive him.

Beth is quiet for a long moment before asking, "So, what should I do?"

Carol's brow furrows in consideration. "Firstly, I suggest you try and be patient. Change can be intimidating for some people, even when it's for the better."

Beth nods, but can't keep the small frown from making its way onto her face. What Carol said made perfect sense, but Beth was proactive by nature and felt such a fool just sitting there, once again hoping he'd come back. So as soon as Carol was far enough away that she wasn't likely to notice, Beth finds herself jumping up from her seat with her messenger bag clutched closely to her.

Patience has never been her strongest suit.

* * *

Under the light of the nearby street-lamp, she finds him leaning against the side of his bike, a cloud of cigarette smoke whirling about his face. Approaching him, Beth reaches into her messenger bag, where she had folded up the vest with care. Silently she takes it out and offers it to him, but rather than take it, he sneers at it.

"I'd wondered where that went…You keep it—'s not mine, anyway. It was my old man's," Daryl explains with a shrug. "…And he's dead now."

"I'm so sorry," she says consolingly, startling when she sees the harsh look he's fixed on her.

"What would you know about it?" he snaps.

"Well, my mom—"

"My old man was a mean, drunken bastard…The world's better off without him."

Daryl, as Carol said, is exactly like a kicked dog—eager for affection and yet wary of it. It's why when he seems to feel threatened, he lashes out. His bark is just to protect himself from being bit. She's aware of all this, but she can't help but be slightly hurt by his sharp tone.

"Well…if he was such a jerk, why do you still his vest?"

He flicks his cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath his boot. "Dunno…for better or worse, he was still my Pop. I'm a Dixon—no use pretending otherwise," he says, his voice growing quiet.

She offers him the vest again, more forcefully this time, and finds the words she knows deep down he needs to hear. "You should keep it, then. It should be worn by someone more deserving."

He eventually reaches out and takes it from her, bruising the leather further with the tight clasp of his fist. He seems to have run out of hot air now, his anger deflated and replaced with something she can't quite name. "What do you know about it?" he asks again.

Pointedly raising her forearm and pushing back the handmade bracelets she's taken to wearing, she reveals the scar she'd first shown him on the night they met. He slowly moves to shrug the vest on, looking at her out of the corner of his eye as he does so.

"More than you think," she says, defiantly.

* * *

She looks him in the eye and behind the true blue innocence there, he finds a soothing sort of wisdom that belies her young years. He carefully moves towards her, taking her gently by the hand and turning it so that the back of it is cradled by his own rough palm. He traces the scar on her wrist with the light, almost reverent touch of his fingertips. Her very presence leaves him feeling terribly vulnerable, but in spite of this he needs to remind himself that she is not his enemy. So, he continues tracing her scar with his fingertips, as if doing so is a reminder that she is not a threat—that she is wounded too.

"You can be whoever the hell you wanna be, Daryl…" She tells him softly. When she withdraws her hand from his, he briefly mourns the absence of her warm skin beneath his touch. "It's not gonna be easy, but we _can_ start over."

He tilts his head, giving her a curious look. She'd included herself in the statement, and he found himself oddly comforted by the fact that Beth wouldn't condemn him to be alone even in her phrasing. "Who do you wanna be, then?" he asks, not meaning for his tone to be so challenging.

But Beth, readjusting her bracelets to cover the scar back up, smiles simply and answers, "I wanna be the girl I am when I'm with you."

He searches her face for some trace of a lie, but finds none. There's something so fresh and pure about her that he almost lets himself believe her capable of breathing new life into him. It's that thought; that silent wish for the change of which she speaks, that has him leaning in, ready for the kiss that could potentially change everything. Daryl feels his pulse thundering a mile a minute beneath his skin. Something like panic, tight and familiar, starts to rise in his chest, making him want to get as far away from Beth as possible. Instead of fighting the intimacy of the moment, however, Daryl surrenders to it. He settles his now shaking hands on her hips and draws her closer to him, never before feeling so desperate to hold onto something lest he should fall apart. Beth's eyes fall shut and she lets out a tiny sigh of what he hopes is contentment when their lips meet.

The kiss is but a brief brushing of his mouth against hers, so slow and gentle that it makes him dizzy. She must be experiencing a similar effect because her hands reach up and grab hold of his vest—the one she'd given back to him—to steady herself as she goes up on her toes to deepen the kiss.

Suddenly, the past—unforgiving and brutal—was forgotten, and his future was no longer so bleak looking. All that mattered was the here and now, this moment, wherein he was worth something if only because she deemed it so.

"Do you want to go somewhere?" she asks, breathily, once the kiss has ended.

He swallows thickly and bobs his head.

* * *

**Please review! Feel free to point out any errors you may have found. Thanks for reading!**


	7. A Sight for Sore Eyes

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Walking Dead franchise. Any recognizable characters/locations/dialogue do not belong to me. This story was written for fun, not for profit.**

* * *

The motel room is dark and faintly smells of mildew, but she hardly takes notices. She's too overwhelmed by Daryl right now; his strong hands resting on her hips and his mouth hot against her neck, making her loose-limbed and uncoordinated. She walks backwards, trusting him to lead her safely to the bed. He strips her of her clothes as they go, leaving them scattered carelessly across the floor in a sort of trail.

When they do finally reach their destination, she's left in nothing but her bra and underwear. He lays her back on the bed, and as she's there stretched out before him, his eyes rake hungrily over every inch of bare flesh that's been revealed to him. His fingers, dexterous and roughened, reach behind her to unclasp her bra. Once she's free from it, he tosses it carelessly behind him. She hums appreciatively while he sprinkles kisses across the landscape of her breasts, her breath catching when his tongue curls around a nipple.

His fingers then skim along her sides to tug down her panties. They're white cotton with little pink flowers decorating them, acting as yet another reminder of just how young Beth still is. He almost hesitates then, mid-caress of her inner thighs, but the call of what lay between them is too strong to ignore. He yanks her panties off the rest of the way and flings them somewhere over his shoulder. His stubble scratches against her as he spreads himself over top. He nibbles at her ear while she undoes his belt and the button of his jeans. She props herself up on her elbows and slowly parts her knees, letting him maneuver himself so that he now kneels between them. His own hand reaches down alongside hers and unzips his fly. With her feet she tries to help him slide both his pants and his boxers off. They're still only bunched around his knees when her hand slips down, taking hold of his erection, and by then he's too distracted to continue shedding them.

She twists her wrist so that she can grip him tighter, earning a ragged gasp from Daryl. His eyes have fallen shut, but under his breath she can hear the plea in his voice when he cusses. She watches him almost squirm above her, feeling incredibly powerful to reduce a man like Daryl—so tough and taciturn—to a writhing mess. Eventually it must become too much for him to endure, because moments later his own hand covers hers, ceasing her ministrations.

"Stop! You gotta…stop," he tells her urgently, as he buries his face into her neck and pants harshly.

"Daryl," she murmurs, once he seems to have regained some semblance of control. "Kiss me?"

She feels a tad girlish and silly for asking, but somehow she feels as if a kiss could validate the overwhelming sensations she's experiencing. A kiss would mean that it's okay to want him as much as she does. It would make this tawdry little fling of theirs, more romantic—legitimate—by far.

The fact that he actually does as she asks and kisses her heatedly, as if his life depended on it, makes her think that he doesn't just view her as some piece of ass. It makes her wonder if she might even _mean_ something to him.

She watches, hazy with mounting lust, as he pulls back from said kiss. He's looking at her as if she has the answers to all the questions that die on his tongue before he can voice them. He sort of nods affirmatively, but before she can ask the meaning behind this action, he continues to trail nipping kisses down her neck, between her breasts, then above and below her belly button. It's when he's suddenly stretched out at the bottom of the bed, his face level with her crotch and her legs suddenly hooked over his shoulders that her breath catches in her throat.

"Daryl?" she calls his attention, tentatively.

He glances up at her, and then reaches up to part her folds with his left hand, his right one stroking soothingly along her side. His long, lank hair tickles her inner thighs and the warm feel of his breath on her most sensitive parts has her quivering earnestly.

"Don't shut your eyes," he orders gruffly, before leaning in to swirl his tongue against her clit.

Gasping, she does as she's told, and watches him bring her to the peak of pleasure. She's hovering at the edge when one last, long suck, has her coming apart at the seams with a wailing prayer.

"Oh my God!" she whispers one last time when the last wave of pleasure has subsided.

And then it's over, and the room is silent save for the sounds of their heavy breathing. The bed's box-spring squeaks under him as he shifts further up the bed to flop down beside her. He almost can't stand to look at her; she's still trembling slightly, and wisps of blonde hair stick to her sweaty forehead and neck. She's truly a sight to behold, and he finds himself thinking that this is the closest he's ever come to God, with her lying beside him looking like an angel.

He blinks several times, and banishes that thought as quickly as it came. He's not some henpecked choir boy, and he'll be damned if he starts waxing poetry over this slip of a woman—_girl_, he reminds himself which causes a swell of guilt to rise up. He swings his legs over and sits up on the edge of the mattress, suddenly eager to put some distance between them. He grabs the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd left on the bedside table, lights up, and then hefts himself up into a standing position. Cigarette between his lips, he pulls his pants up from where they're pooled around his ankles. He's still hard, and watching her stretch out on the bed beside him is not helping matters, but he refuses to indulge in her any further. He won't let her drive him to distraction again, no matter how badly he wants another crack at her.

Merle's the addict—not him.

Daryl finishes doing up his fly and readjusts the bulge of his cock in the confines of his jeans. He can feel her watching him from her place on the bed, but rather than speak to her, he searches the motel room for the ashtray he's been using. When he finds it by the windowsill, he makes use of it and stands peering through the cheap blinds out into the parking lot. It may not be the Ritz, but this motel room is nicer than a lot of the other places he's stayed. Daryl crosses to the other side of the room to sit at the rickety table that's placed next to the shabby kitchenette. He closes the old pizza box he'd left sitting there and stares blankly at a spot on the wall. He wonders if he should make some sort of an effort to tidy up.

With a look that is far too cultivated to be truly casual, he glances over at Beth again. She's still naked on his bed, only now she's curled up on her side, and dozing peacefully. He whispers her name a few times but when that doesn't seem to rouse her, he decides to just let her rest. He supposes there's no harm in letting her take a nap. He finishes his smoke, snatches up the newspaper he'd swiped from the motel's front desk, and carefully sits on the bed with his back propped up against the headboard. He's cautious not to touch any part of her, but whether that's out of his reluctance to disturb her or his own wariness of the effect she has on him, he's not entirely sure.

He opens the paper and hastily tries to distract himself before he can start staring again.

* * *

At some point he must have fallen asleep because he's woken early the following morning by the sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand beside him. He reaches for it and sends the call straight to voicemail. He knows instinctively somehow that it's his brother calling, and Merle only ever calls for either one of two reasons: to deliver some lame-ass excuse for his absence, or else he needs money. Either way, Daryl's really not in the mood.

"Loan shark?" he hears Beth say from her place beside him. He's not exactly sure how long she'd been asleep but her is voice has become groggy sounding. She looks up at him with a small, bleary-eyed smile that's all sweetness and innocence, and for a split second all he can do is gape stupidly at her. She looks comfortable and something deep in the pit of his stomach nags at him how natural she looks there on his bed beside him. She then slowly, and almost reluctantly, lifts herself into a seated position and stretches out her arms. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she pulls her hair into a low-hanging ponytail at the nape of her neck.

His unsubtle staring must have her feeling self-conscious because she looks away from him then and loudly clears her throat. Feeling guilty to have been caught so openly gaping at her, he hastily responds to her joke with a grumbled, "No, just my brother."

"Merle, right? Didn't he leave town?" she asks, standing.

He nods and sets aside the paper.

"You must miss him."

Frowning, he stands up, his hunches hunched. "What d'you know about it?" he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Just because she's had him between her dimpled knees does not give her the right to start analyzing him or his relationship with his brother. Her neutral expression seems to falter at the harshness of his tone, and as if suddenly remembering her nudity, she turns her back on him and sets about picking her clothes up off the floor. She hurriedly redresses, not daring to look him in the eye again.

"I didn't mean anything by it, you know," she says quietly, tugging her t-shirt back on over her head. "I just haven't seen my brother in a long time, either, so I thought…"

Her voice trails off then and she just stands there, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. He too falls silent, unsure of what to say. Despite her having found his mouth agreeable when it was at work between her legs, he can't imagine she'd find it nearly as pleasing if he started speaking. Maybe it was the rough influence of his upbringing, or simply his natural insensitivity, but he knew he was sure to upset her in some way.

She shifts her weight from one foot to another, her eyes now cast down to the old, thread-bare carpet they stood upon. "I better go," she says, timidly.

He nods, craving another smoke. Her very presence has him on edge, unsure of what to say or even what to do with his hands. "Do you want a ride home?" he finds himself offering, before he can stop himself.

From under the fan of her lashes, her blue eyes look up at him, suddenly brightened by the proposal. "Yes, please," she says, the corners of her mouth curling upwards. "I'd appreciate that."

* * *

He readjusts the arm she has wrapped around his middle and brings her other hand to rest firmly on his shoulder. She's never been on a motorcycle before, and to be perfectly honest she's not sure she would want to again. It was an experience comprising equally of excitement and breath-taking fear. It was distracting in the best possible way to be pressed up against Daryl's back, able to feel his muscles move beneath his shirt. But when Daryl had turned onto the old, winding road that led out to the Greene family farm, Beth found herself gripping him tight enough that he was sure to bruise. She was suddenly very aware that there was nothing but their own clothes to protect them should they take a spill and crash. Daryl wasn't even wearing a helmet, having given her his to wear.

She taps him on the shoulder and points, letting him know where to drop her off. He slows the bike down to a stop down the road from her house. She breathes a sigh of relief at having arrived safely. He turns off the engine and she braces against him as she climbs off the back. She lets her hands linger a moment longer than necessary on his shoulders. She removes the helmet and hands it to him, smoothing her hand along her ponytail to tame any flyaway hairs.

"Thanks for the ride," she says, flashing him with a shy smile. A nod in her direction is all the response he makes. "I better head inside before—"

"Before someone sees us?" he grumbles. "Wouldn't want your old man to know you're out here slumming it with me, right?"

She nervously readjusts the strap of her bag across her chest and frowns, not liking the tone of self-loathing she detects. "Daryl—"

"No," he interrupts her. "Just forget it. I understand."

He puts on the helmet and then starts up his bike again. She steps back and watches him speed down the road, until he's out of sight. Heaving a weary sigh and muttering to herself about short fuses, she starts quickly towards the house.

Climbing the steps of the porch two at a time, she stops dead and nearly shrieks when she catches sight of her sister sitting in the rocking chair.

"Maggie?" Her hand flies up, as if ready to catch her heart should it break free from her chest.

"Good morning," her sister says dourly.

"You scared the bejesus out of me!" Beth frowns.

"Did you have fun at your 'sleepover'?"

"What?—did you sleep out here? What are you doing up this early?"

"I'm just waiting for you."

"Why?"

Maggie shrugs. "Just wanted to make sure you got home safely. You know? Make sure there were no detours to some cheap wedding chapel in Vegas."

Beth rolls her eyes. "Well, we talked about it, but we couldn't be bothered facing the traffic."

Maggie stands up and crosses her arms over the ample chest that Beth had so envied growing up. The look of abject disapproval on Maggie's face as she takes in Beth's appearance has Beth shifting on the spot self-consciously.

"What?" she finally snaps.

"You didn't even change your clothes," Maggie observes snidely.

She had meant to—that was what she'd packed the bag for—but then Daryl had gone and _distracted_ her. "Doesn't mean I didn't take them off," Beth volleys back.

Her sister's face wrinkles, in what Beth can only assume is disgust. She looks at her older sister defiantly, almost daring her to run inside and tattle. But she's pretty sure Maggie's not going to do that, not yet anyway. She's probably still hoping that she can talk some sense into Beth before things get any further out of hand. That's probably the real reason Maggie's out here at the crack of dawn waiting up for her; so she can talk Beth down from this perceived cliff she's standing on the edge of.

But Beth doesn't give Maggie the chance to even start in with her latest lecture. "Don't," she says pointedly over her shoulder as she throws open the screen door and hurries inside.

She creeps through the house, mindful of the creaky spots in the floorboards. She doesn't want to alert anybody to her presence just yet, as it would only invite questions regarding why she's sneaking in at the crack of dawn when she's supposed to be at a friend's house. Beth eventually makes it to her room, quietly closing the door behind her, before dumping her bag at the bottom of her bed.

She can feel her frustration mounting. For some stupid reason, Daryl's upset with her and now she's got Maggie breathing down her neck.

How did she let herself get so caught up in this infatuation with him? Just a short time ago, she'd been so caught up in her own misery that she'd forgotten what it was to actually want something for herself. And sadly she wants the one thing he seems most reluctant to give her—his company.

* * *

Daryl's inbox is full with unheard voice mails.

Merle's called every day this week, yet Daryl cannot bring himself to answer. Maybe it's a punk move to duck his brother's calls like he's some pissy ex-girlfriend, but after that bum deal in Atlanta, Daryl's not sure he can trust Merle to stay clean. Merle will just feed him some lame-ass excuse or yet another cock and bull story, and Daryl's just not in the mood. He has enough on his plate as it is, struggling against the allure of a certain blonde.

He tells himself this desire for her stems from curiosity. He's not used to women like her, comprised of equal parts purity and grit.

It catches his eye, the colourful threads standing out against the drab carpet. Recognizing it instantly as one of Beth's handmade bracelets, he bends over and picks it up. It seemed so flimsy a thing in his wide, roughened palm. Nevertheless, he knows it's a talisman of sorts for Beth, covering up her scars and reminding her to be strong. He's not exactly sure what to do with it, but knowing its significance, he can't bring himself to throw it away. So, rather than chucking it into the nearest garbage can with that old pizza box, he tucks it away into his back pocket for safe keeping.

* * *

She finds him waiting for her again in the school's parking lot, leaning against his bike just as before. She hesitates before approaching him. While she can't imagine he'd be here for any other reason than to see her, she can't help but sense reluctance rolling off of him in waves.

"Hi Daryl," she says.

He nods at her, uncrossing his arms from in front of his chest. He then reaches out, dangling something between his thumb and index finger. She recognizes it instantly as one of the bracelets her Mom had taught her and Maggie how to make when she was in the hospital on bed rest. Beth's eyes flit to her wrist, where she hadn't noticed its absence and sees that it had indeed gone missing.

"Thanks," she says, smiling. She takes the bracelet from him to retie it around her wrist. He watches her fumble with the ends for a moment, before slowly reaching over and fastening it at her pulse point himself. The pads of his fingers brush across the sensitive skin of her wrist, which causes a pleasant array of tingles to shoot up her arm.

Emboldened by his consideration, Beth steps out onto a limb. "Have drinks with me?"

Finished securing the bracelet, he takes a step back, returning what he deems a suitable amount of distance between them. He snorts, as if she's said something particularly ridiculous. "You aint even legal, girl."

She supposes he has a point, though she wouldn't have imagined that underage drinking would be something he was against. "Then—dinner? You must eat."

"I'm going hunting," he excuses.

The goosebumps that had appeared across her skin fade with her growing disappointment. The last time she saw him, he'd seemed just as withdrawn—irritable. She's surprised that he would actually bother returning something that must seem so girlish and silly to him, but nevertheless she does appreciate it. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet, his head hanging down. He seems a bit downtrodden, looking the way his rejection is starting to make her feel. Why _did_ he bother coming out of his way to return the bracelet if he's just going to brush her off?

In the moment, she makes one last stitch effort, swearing to give up entirely should he refuse her again. "I could join you," she says, earning a surprised look from him. "I mean—you could teach me...if you wanted..."

He stares at her a little longer before nodding slightly. "I'll pick you up tomorrow," he states, brusquely. "Can you be ready for 5?"

"In the morning?" she utters, disbelievingly.

He turns from her then, as if suddenly impatient, and climbs onto his bike. Before the sound of her voice can be silenced by the revving of his engine, she finds herself agreeing in a rush. "Ok—fine! 5 o'clock!"

He pauses briefly, a small indication that he's heard her, before turning the ignition and starting up his bike. Beth stands there waiting to watch him drive off, but instead Daryl stays parked where he is. A moment later, out of the corner of his eye, she catches his gaze. He sort of tosses his head and it takes her a moment to realize that the gesture is an invitation to climb on for a ride. A renewed sense of excitement rushes through her veins, along with a healthy dose of fear. Nonetheless, Beth finds herself clambering on behind him. He hands her his helmet, readjusts her arms, kicks the stand up, and soon the two of them are rushing down the road following behind the yellow school buses.

* * *

**Please review! If you should find any mistakes, please feel free to point them out so I can correct them. Cheers!**


	8. Hope that I Don't Fall in Love with You

Living on a farm, Beth was not unaccustomed to early mornings. However, as the sun was still a long way off from rising, she would hardly classify this as _morning_. Nevertheless, Daryl was to arrive shortly and Beth didn't want to keep him waiting. So, whilst making as little noise as possible, she crept out of her room, down the stairs and out the house. She'd left a note on the fridge telling her Daddy that she was going to an early morning choir practice and then spending the rest of the day primping and that she'd probably spend the night at her friend's house too. She hated that she was getting so used to such blatant lying, but the situation called for it. There was no way her dad would understand her connection with Daryl, especially if even Maggie of all people couldn't.

She met him a little down the road from the house, so as not to wake anybody with the revving of his bike's engine. The sun was just starting to rise over the treetops on the far off hill, casting the horizon in a beautiful orange glow. He was wearing the vest over his flannel shirt, and when she climbed behind him onto the bike, she found herself unconsciously pressing her chest into the wings. If Daryl noticed, he didn't say anything—not that she would really have expected him to.

Growing up on her family's farm, she was used to a busy house with busy people. Daryl didn't seem the sort of guy to be burdened by a schedule, and considering the level of patience hunting seemed to take, she supposed that made a certain kind of sense. He was the taciturn sort, rarely speaking in anything but unenthusiastic, monosyllabic sentences. So, they spent the day in relative silence, only speaking when necessary or when Daryl was trying to teach her something. Beth didn't mind the quiet so much anymore, finding it to be comfortable and in keeping with the stillness of the surrounding forestry.

But later on, after the sun had set and Daryl had built them a campfire, he finally began to open up a bit. Though that may have been due in part to the bottle of whiskey she'd swiped from Patton's one night when she was helping Maggie with inventory. They shared it, taking turns drinking from it while they shared stories. He told her about the time he'd seen something called a "Chupacabra", and while she hadn't the faintest idea what that was, she'd never heard him talk so much or so passionately about anything. So, unsure of what the appropriate response was, Beth was left sitting in a captivated silence.

He looked over at her when he'd finished, and seemed to misread her rapt expression for one of disbelief. "I know what I saw," he defended, adamantly.

She shrugs, and reaches for the long stick Daryl had been using to stoke the fire. "I'm not arguing."

Grumbling, he lights up another cigarette. She watches him for a moment; the way he fingers the cigarette, places it between his lips and lights it with such practiced ease. It's almost graceful, she thinks, almost snorting at the thought of Daryl's reaction to that thought.

"You know those things will kill you," she says eventually, turning her gaze from him when he catches her staring. She shifts one of the campfire's logs which caused the embers beneath to crackle loudly.

He rolls his eyes at her. "I aint that lucky."

She sort of pauses then, her eyes flickering to the inside of her wrist. From out of the corner of his eye he follows her gaze, and upon noticing what's drawn her focus, he bites the inside of his cheek guiltily. With tonight possibly being one of the last stolen moments he can have with her, he doesn't want to spend it dwelling on painful memories. He finds himself putting out the cigarette, as if taking a sort of penalty for having upset her. He then reaches over and takes the stick she'd been using to stoke the fire with.

She says his name as if in the hopes of drawing him back into the conversation. He doesn't doubt for a second that she thinks he's not still listening even though he makes no indication of having heard her. He'd taught her how to track today and while she was by no means an expert, she'd taken to it pretty well. So, he knew full well that she knew he was listening—that he never really stops. His ears are too attuned to the sounds of nature that any sort of disturbance, even the soft whisper of her voice, couldn't be ignored.

But all the same, he refuses to meet those blues eyes of hers, unwilling to let her see the loathing behind his own whenever he talks about himself, as if it were somehow infectious that way. He prods at the burning logs again, trying to keep busy. The fire crackles loudly as the silence stretches out between them.

She sighs sadly, and finally asks, "You don't really want to die, do you Daryl?"

She passes him over the bottle, letting him have the last of its contents. Without so much as glancing at her, he accepts it and downs the rest. He swipes at his chin with the back of his hand where some dribbled out into the scruff on his chin.

"There aint nothing out there worth sticking around for anyway," he grumbles out eventually.

"Nothing?" she repeats. "I used to think that too…but I don't anymore."

He finally looks her in the eye, and she graces him with a tiny, telling smile.

"My daddy was right—" she continues when he says nothing. What was he to say? What was that look she's wearing supposed to mean exactly? He's never seen it on her before—on _anyone_ really—but instead of letting himself ponder over it, he continues listening to the soothing sound of her voice as she continues. "Life is short and messy. You have to take the bad if you want to get to the good stuff. It makes it all the more worth it."

"What good stuff—jail, the gutter or death?"

He sees her wince, and the regret that had crept into her expression has now doubled. She clearly wishes she'd never said anything, had let him alone and miserable with all his secrets. But she's not like him—she's young and animated. She disturbs the ground she treads upon, and the scar on her wrist that those handmade bracelets insufficiently try to hide, is proof enough of hers woes that she may as well have sung them aloud. He rolls his eyes at himself, frustrated by the conversation their having, but not by her.

That thin scar is nothing like the ones across his back however, and he almost says so. But it obviously means something significant to her just like his do to him, so he swallows back his immediate response and tries to reword it so as to make her understand without viciously tearing into her.

Beth looked as though she'd given up on receiving any sort of acknowledgement, when he finally manages to grumble out his reply. "Your old man aint nothing like mine was, Beth."

For what seems like a long time, they both sit staring at the fire silently, listening to it crackle and watching a burst of embers flare up whenever Daryl prods at one of the logs.

"And _you're_ nothing like him, either," she says it with such an air of finality that he almost finds himself believing her.

"You called again?" Hershel Greene paced back and forth across his living room floor.

"That's the fourth message I've left, Daddy. She isn't there."

"You and Glenn go check around town again. If we don't hear back soon, I'm calling Sheriff Grimes."

For a split second, he's sure that this must be some drunken hallucination.

He's not sure how it started—who made the first move—but the fact of the matter is that it _is_ happening again, and moreover, he wants it to. Not just as a way to drown sorrows or hide from their problems, but because he wants her and for whatever reason, she actually wants him. He knows he shouldn't give in again, but she's right here and her mouth is so pink and her skin looks so soft…

"Beth—" he rasps. Wisps of her blonde hair come loose from her ponytail to tickle his skin when he leans into the kiss she gives him. He can taste the whiskey they'd shared on her tongue, and he briefly wonders if she's sober enough to be doing his. But she's taking the lead, offering what he never knew he needed until that first night on the pool table.

She shifts closer until she's fully straddling him, seating herself directly over his crotch. Groaning at the sudden pressure, he thrusts upwards and it makes them both gasp. The ground is hard beneath him but he, who has always been so attuned to his surroundings, barely notices as he lies back with her. Her fingers gently run through his long hair, combing it back from his face as her lips move to his ear and then down the side of his neck, dropping little kisses and hushed pleas for him to touch her as she goes. Daryl's hands reach out to steady her by the hips, ceasing the desperate and somewhat awkward writhing she seems to be totally unaware of.

"I can't make you happy, Beth." His throat feels tight, a clear sign of his reluctance to point out to her what is obvious to the rest of the world. When he finally manages to get the words out, they burst out like a harsh sounding sob. Yet she doesn't seem embarrassed for him, or disdainful of his show of weakness like certain people he's known before her would have been. Instead she lets her nose nuzzle down the line of his jaw comfortingly.

"That's for me to decide," she murmurs.

He feels her fingertips brush across his chest, across his heart, as if she were coaxing it to beat only for her. And though it might sound utterly foolish and overly sentimental from a man like him, he felt as if maybe it was working.

Her small breasts brush against him, and without giving it too much thought, one of his hands reaches up to cup one through her shirt. "This won't end well," he tells her—guarantees her.

"Then let's enjoy it while it lasts," she sighs pleadingly.

When she starts grinding down lightly against his rapidly hardening cock again, the pressure is enough that a small grunt is torn from his throat. He marvels at how she—this young, inexperienced slip of a girl, knows just how to drive a grown man to distraction with the slightest of touches. He watches her move against him, more enthralled by her innocent writhing than he had ever been by the experienced women he'd had before—the ones Merle had all but thrown at him.

He wonders for a split second what Merle would make of Beth, and vice versa, but then banishes those thoughts. His brother, the brash loudmouth that he is, has no place here amidst the tenderness between them now.

She leans back, away from him a moment so that she can look at him. He knows he should take this opportunity to push her away and regain his self-control, because giving into this now will only make it that much harder to resist her later. He knows it's wrong, that everything he said to Beth is absolutely true, but nevertheless the feelings she stirs up inside of him are just too strong to simply ignore. So, he leans back and pulls his shirt up over his head and then tosses it aside. She seems somehow emboldened by the fact that she hadn't had to coax him to remove it, that he'd voluntarily done so.

The tip of one of her fingernails lightly scrapes across the flat of his now bare nipple, causing his breath to catch in his throat. He'd never realized how sensitive they could get before her. Despite his reverent gaze, his hips unintentionally press up into her again, and he is no longer content with simply looking. Her hair and bare skin are backlit by the moonlight streaming down through the branches of a nearby tree, making her look almost ethereal. He could not quite see her eyes but, nevertheless, he felt the heat of her gaze burning into him like a brand.

And if only for tonight, he knew he was wholly hers.

Slowly, she began rocking her hips enticingly against him again, making him groan—again. She opened her mouth wider, suddenly overwhelmed by the confident touch of his tongue to her lips. Her mouth tasted of the strawberries she had packed in the picnic, a stark contrast to the nicotine from his cigarette

He needed more of her, and for the very first time, he wasn't hesitant in showing so. He tangled his hands in her ponytail when she pulled back for a steadying breath and pulled her closer into his embrace for another needful kiss. Her own hands began moving down to unbuckle his belt and undo his fly. Beth then pulled back from the kiss, gasping, and he took that opportunity to push down his jeans and boxers.

It wasn't until she spread her fingers over his chest that Daryl felt his first flush of embarrassment. The first time they'd done this, he hadn't really undressed. The experience had been a fumbled, urgent rush to the finish line. But things between them were different now. She wasn't even looking at him now, her mouth still pressed to his. But to be so bare…so vulnerable…beneath her reverent touch was overwhelming. He found himself turning away from the kiss and burying his face into her neck where loose tendrils of her hair had fallen.

"Daryl?"

She was panting heavily, and he nuzzled into her neck where perspiration was starting to gather. An airy sound was drawn from her—the whimpering sigh he remembered from before—and then her pelvis bore down against his crotch.

He shifts his lower body so that, in another moment, he was moving in a clumsy counterpoint to the steady sway of her hips. He must seem overeager and desperate to her; more so than he had felt that first time on the pool table. Nonetheless, he couldn't seem to stop himself. He'd never had a woman this way before. Even that first time with Beth hadn't been the sinuous dance she's leading him in now. It leaves him gasping and blinking up at her in marvel, because despite the fact that he undoubtedly has double the sexual experience she does, his touch doesn't possess one tenth of the self-assuredness that she demonstrates now.

Eventually she coaxes him into another kiss, and he hopes that he might be able to grab hold of the reins again and get himself under control. He's not one of those ungainly schoolboys that Beth had undoubtedly had chasing her. He's a grown ass man, and he could hear Merle's voice in his head telling him to start acting like it. Though when her hand, calloused from what he can only assume was guitar-playing—grips him tightly, she seems pleased by the way he eagerly arches into her touch. And within minutes of her stroking him, he nearly finds his release.

"Wait!" he gasps, halting her movement.

The moment that followed was agonizing, the only sounds to be heard were the crackling of the fire and the sound of their panting. The need to cum is still present, but he has suddenly come back to reality, the one in which he's lying with his jeans unbuttoned and splayed open beneath a woman—a girl, really, who's almost half his age. But that wasn't what was bothering him. Rather, what he's feeling is a rush of embarrassment at having it almost come to such an abrupt end.

But Beth in the meantime, as if totally unaware that she'd pushed him to his limit, got up on her knees and shoved down her shorts and underwear. The process of their removal is clumsy and one-handed for the most part, prompting him to reach out and steady her. Now upright and sitting astride him, her positioning is a little more brazen than before, with her slick heat hovering directly over him—her shorts tangled around one of her knees. He watches as she slips her t-shirt up off her body and then as she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra—white with little pink butterflies across the cups—which she also proceeds to remove. He can barely see her in the warm dim light that the fire emanates from behind her, but just the _thought_ of her nakedness is enough that he can feel the intensifying of arousal once more.

Gently, she picks up each of his hands, taking the time to press kisses to the old cigarette burns, before placing them, palm-down, on the flat of her stomach.

"Touch me," she whispers. "Please?"

His hands seem too rough to handle something as delicate as her naked body. Still, her plea is enough that he slowly and carefully slides his hands up her ribcage which juts beneath the skin. His palms skim over her hardened nipples, causing her to shiver delicately. One breast in each hand: they're small, but fit perfectly into the curve of his palms. He eventually draws one into his mouth and suckles her, causing her to arch her back with a sweet moan. Her head lolls back so that the end of her now loosened ponytail, tickles her waist, causing her to involuntarily roll her hips against his hardened member.

He grunts, and the course along his chin scrapes lightly across the sensitive bud he'd been suckling. Her breath hitches, her hips slip back, and he can feel the slick heat emanating from her center. He eagerly reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and grabs the condom he'd brought _just in case_. The reality of what they're about to do is so present in his mind that he's almost afraid of it. Logically, it makes no sense—he's already had her. Yet, this time is different. This time he needs to hear the words, because this time he knows the worth of someone like Beth's touch—her trust.

"You're sure? You're positive you want—?" he asks as he shifts them over so that he's now hovering over her on his forearms. His voice comes out gritty and breathless sounding. For a split second, he's embarrassed by it. He's not the same fumbling fifteen year old kid he'd been the first time he'd done this. And neither Merle nor their old man is waiting to pay Beth for her time or make fun of how clumsy he is rolling the rubber over his cock.

Beth nods, sighing sweetly. "Yeah."

Again, Daryl found himself unprepared for the intense heat and the tight flesh that took and took, until he was completely sheathed inside her body. Muscles rippling all around him, tightening and hanging on...It was incredible. His memory of their first encounter was clearly not enough preparation for the intensity of this moment. He'd forgotten that it could feel any better than that until she became comfortable enough with him inside her again that she began to writhe beneath him in her eagerness. He trembled as he rearranged them, slowly coaxing her up and over until she was straddling him again.

Beth gave a tiny sigh of his name, and that's all it took for him to be able to steady himself. _This was real. She'd chosen him._

She slowly dropped back down, and his world changed yet again.

By the time they'd finished and redressed, the fire is now dwindling and in the privacy of its glow, it's as though they are the last two people on earth. She likes this feeling, the warm tingling sensation that it brings to the pit of her stomach. They watch between the tree branches as the silver light from the moon make its way across the sky.

"Will you stay?" she asks, whispering against his shoulder. He doesn't answer right away, and she'd like to think it's because he's actually considering her question.

"I aint good for you…" he eventually says, his tone of voice flat. "What we got going between us aint gonna end with a white picket fence and dozens of fat grandkids."

"I never thought it would." She laces her fingers through his and brings their entwined hands up to rest against her chest. "But however long this _can_ stretch out, I want it to."

The sun is still low in the sky, slowly ebbing away the dark of night. He drops her off down the road from the farm first thing in the morning, the same spot he'd picked her up from before. With a lingering kiss, she shyly bids him goodbye and starts walking towards the house. She's tender between her legs, her thighs are bruised, she's pretty sure she's got leaves and twigs caught in her hair and beard burn along her neck. Nevertheless…the content smile on her face is genuine.

She's almost reached the porch when her Daddy, Maggie, Patricia, Otis, Sheriffs' Grimes and Walsh all come rushing out the front door. Freezing in her tracks, she sees the varying degrees of concern written over their faces. She shuffles her feet awkwardly, unable to look any of them in the eye. Her state of appearance is a dead giveaway as to what she's been doing.

"Good morning," her dad eventually says, his tone solemn.


	9. Fish & Bird

Daryl ducks his head when he first enters Hatlin's. He doesn't want to go drawing too much attention to himself, especially not the attention of the staff who must know by now from Beth's fat-mouthed sister what he and Beth had gotten up to here in this very bar. He makes his way across the room to the nearest available barstool and orders himself a beer. He doesn't exactly like the fancy and somewhat expensive stuff they're selling but it's been a long day and he needs to unwind a bit. Looking towards the payphone, he debates calling Beth. He's been thinking about her the last couple days and wants to invite her to join him, take her on a real date like the delivery boy does for her sister—treat her proper. But even though the place is pretty much cleared out, the staff is still cleaning up and he doesn't want to condemn Beth to any more of their judgment for merely joining him in a drink.

He spares a glance towards that same pool table on which he'd first known her in the physical sense that night after closing time, and sees a game in progress. The man with his back to Daryl bends, lining up his next shot with the same pocket that Daryl had dropped the condom he'd used with her. For a split second he finds himself wondering if it was removed and if perhaps it was Maggie who had done so, and if a small part of her animosity towards Daryl came from the degrading task of having to clean up after that first tryst atop the table. He sniggers quietly at that thought, but he knows that's not really the reason.

The reason—or at least a part of it—wins the game with his next shot.

In his ripped jeans and a dirty shirt, he grabs the cash that his opponent slaps down on the edge. He lets loose a very recognizable laugh and instantly the same familiar sense of dread that always accompanies it washes over Daryl. But before he can turn and hightail it out of there, he's spotted.

"Hey, baby brother," Merle calls out. "You wanna play the next round?"

* * *

Having spent the majority of today with him on her mind, she decides she needs to see him.

It hasn't been that long since she'd last seen Daryl, barely over a week, but Beth genuinely finds herself missing him today. Maybe it's because he's been the topic of conversation so much lately or just that she finds herself suddenly very alone in her house these days, being subjected to the silent treatment the way she has been, but either way she needs to see him. It's become an endless craving, almost like an itch that just won't go away until it's scratched. So, deciding she can go no longer without that scratch, she makes the journey to the motel on foot. It's a long walk but she'd figured it would be worthwhile for a bit of his company.

Upon seeing the infamous motorcycle parked where it was next to Daryl's, Beth hesitates. Takinga deep steadying breath, she steps forward and knocks on the door. After a long moment of listening to the grumbled cussing coming from the other side, it opens and she's face to face with Merle Dixon.

Looking at her he's confused but eventually a mocking smirk does find its way onto his aging face. He opens the door wider without a word and makes a grand welcoming gesture, but she stays put outside on the doormat. Who knows what he's been drinking or doing would be stupid of her not to be wary of him, as Merle does have quite the reputation following at his heels—then again, so does Daryl_. _But Merle's the brother that everyone's most afraid of, and there on the dimly lit doorstep as she tries not to stare at the large pit stains under his arms, she wonders if it's not for his smell alone. Maybe it's a tad unfair of her not to give Merle the benefit of the doubt. Shehad been willing tosleep with Daryl on that first night, after all. But still, she can't seem to help the nagging feeling that she's not _not_ in trouble in Merle's presence.

"Hi—is Daryl here?" she finally manages to ask, once she'd worked up enough courage to give voice to the question.

"He stepped out to get a pack of smokes," Merle says, leaning against the side of the door frame when she doesn't come in. "But I'll be sure to tell him you stopped by."

"Thanks," she says, immediately turning to go.

"So you're his little songbird, huh?"

Gathering what courage she is capable of, Beth turns back around and nods.

"He mentioned you."

"Really?"

Instinctually, the urge to smile comes over her. The idea of a guy telling his brother about her should be vindicating. However, when that brother is _the_ Merle Dixon, it's also a little more than nerve-racking and for that reason she fights back the impulse to smile just as easily as it comes. Beth wonders if the uneasy feeling that's replacing it is something along the lines of what Maggie feels regarding her and Daryl.

"If you want, you can join us down at Hatlin's later for drink," he drawls, eying her closely. "We can get to know each other then."

"Thanks," she says. She _had_ made the journey out to see Daryl and not wanting to appear any meeker in Merle's eyes, she nods. "I'll be there."

* * *

Merle had turned up, saying he was just passing through. So Daryl offered to share his motel room, thinking that Merle would be more likely to take off first chance he got if he doesn't spend any money on a place to stay. Yet, foolishly Daryl had neglected to take his brother's reputation into account. Merle seems capable of making trouble just by blinking, and so Daryl should have declined the offer to go to Hatlin's Bar and play a few rounds of pool.

They get to talking as they share a drink and as Daryl racks up the pool table. For a short while as they play it's not so bad. They share a few laughs and enjoy the relatively friendly atmosphere that tonight offers. Things between them have always been easy and lighthearted for the most part, until Merle goes taking things to the extreme. Daryl knows he's partly to blame having followed Merle's example as much as he has over the years, but he'd still like to think he is deserving of good things—of someone good.

"Hey!"

Missing his next shot, Daryl glances up to see Beth entering the bar and suddenly the pool table has a totally different context. She gives him a little wave before going up to the bar to get herself a coke. He nods approvingly at the shot Merle makes before turning to look over his shoulder. Daryl sees Carol's the one working. Thankfully, Beth's sister isn't here tonight. He doesn't think her family would like the idea of Beth spending time with both him _and _Merle, and he doesn't want to isolate her from them anymore than he already has.

"So, she's your girl?"

Daryl answers with a nervous little nod and puts a bit more chalk on the end of his cue. He hopes to God he's not blushing as he takes his next shot. He doesn't want to share too much about Beth with Merle. This thing he has with her has been going well and is different from anything he's used to—_special_, and the idea of Merle having any part of it makes him a little anxious. He might be the one to ruin things with her, not that Daryl would dare to say that out loud.

"She's a pretty little thing—young," Merle notes.

Taking a drink from his beer bottle, Daryl nods and watches Merle take his shot. He sinks the ball into the very same pocket that Daryl had dumped the condom he'd used with Beth that first night. He lets out a happy little chuckle and then from behind them, Daryl hears Beth's voice.

"Nice shot," she compliments, smiling at Daryl when he turns around to face her.

"Well, speak of the devil," Merle says, going over to her and putting an arm around her shoulders.

Daryl watches her force a smile before she goes over and grabs herself a stool to sit upon and watch. Instinctually, Daryl knows this is a bad idea. The combination before him of his brother and his _girlfriend_—a title which still sounded so foreign to him that he'd yet to say aloud—just won't end well tonight. So, trying not to let panic take hold, he follows her. He can feel the eyes of other patrons on them as they go and it makes him all the more edgy.

"Here's your last chance to escape," he says, earning another patient smile. "I'll distract him and you make for the door."

"He invited me along."

He shakes his head disapprovingly. "…Merle's trouble."

"That's funny because some might say the same about you," she says, raising a pointed eyebrow.

He stands there a few minutes trying to talk her into going home there and then. But he knows by the tone of her voice that he won't win here. Merle had extended a challenge of sorts by inviting her and she was just plain refusing not to rise to it. He watches as she sends a little wave of greeting to Carol, who he had asked to call the Sherriff's office if Merle did start anything with anyone.

"Hey Betty," Merle calls out. "You wanna play the winner?"

"It's Beth," she corrects, with more of that forced politeness. "And I don't know how to play."

"Well, then you can be my cheerleader and watch me kick our boy's ass here."

She meets Daryl's gaze over the table when he goes to take his shot and gives him a thumbs up. He knows she's unsettled being in Merle's presence, but there is a tiny part of him that admires her for being bold enough to show her face at all. However, he's also unnerved by what could possibly happen here tonight. This is the kind of scenario that had worried him from the very beginning of their relationship. It was a conflict of loyalties before him, which he knew could and _would _get tricky.

* * *

The last two hours had gone by reasonably quick and Beth was relieved by that fact. The place was starting to clear out and the staff had started to clean up the empty tables. For a little while she thinks they might actually get out the bar tonight unscathed. That is until…

"There's talk of some guy getting laid right here one night with one of the waitresses after closing," Merle says loudly, as Daryl takes aim. "Which one do you think it is?"

Beth looks away, mortified and desperate not to meet either brother's eye and potentially give herself away. It was _the_ most daring thing she'd ever done, aside from cutting her wrist. She can sense Daryl's nervous gaze find her from the other side of the table though. She knows without having to ask that he hadn't told Merle about their first night together. He wouldn't do that. But they'd both been foolish then to think Merle somehow wouldn't find out about something so scandalous in a place frequented so much in this county—especially when it was something that didn'tinvolve him.

"I bet it's that honey with the short brown hair," Merle goes on. "Where's she?"

"She's not working tonight," Beth says.

"You know her?" he asks. Maggie's been working in Hatlin's for a couple years now, and the few occasions she's had to serve the elder Dixon brother had always left her in the worst of moods.

"She's my sister."

Merle's expression changes to one of comprehension. "Oh, really?"

She watches as Daryl's hackles rise at the tone of his brother's voice. The implication that Daryl was using her to get to Maggie was made clear both from Merle's tone of voice and the sly smile that now graces his face. He raises his eyebrows suggestively at Daryl a few times and then Daryl puts down his own drink on the nearest empty table with a loud _thunk_.

* * *

After paying for their drinks, Daryl goes outside to the parking lot for a smoke. It's been a long couple of hours and he needs just a minute to himself. Unfortunately, Merle doesn't pick up on that fact and joins him. Beth had gone to use the ladies room, and so standing there alone by their bikes is when Merle starts running his mouth. He was the more experienced player and had won the game, which meant Daryl was to pay for the next round of drinks.

"So, are you sure you're not gonna join me?" Merle asks yet again, when he'd finished taunting him.

Having no intention of going, it's more out of curiosity that he asks, "Where are you going?"

"Not sure yet, but it'll be a long way from this place."

Shaking his head, Daryl says, "Nah, I've got a good thing going here."

"C'mon man!" Merle says. "Some waitress' hole is not worth sticking around for."

Daryl drops his cigarette to the ground and stomps on it. "Beth isn't a waitress."

"But her sister is…"

Before he gets the chance to snap out a reply to the suggestion that it's Maggie he's after, Beth comes out the door and makes her way to them. Looking straight at him and not bothering with Merle, she grins. It's that happy expression she's wearing that's worth sticking around for. It might not mean much to the average Joe or to Merle for that matter, but to him it meant acceptance. It meant he'd done something worthy of that look. He returns the smile, fully aware that he probably looks like a moron wearing it.

"You want a smoke, Blondie?" Merle offers

"Actually, I should get going," Beth says, approaching them as the bar door shuts behind her. "I'll see you around."

She gives Merle another forced grin before turning it to Daryl. He has a feeling she knows he's not in the best of moods which is probably why she's choosing now to take off. Glancing one last time to Merle, she then gently bumps into Daryl's arm as she goes by him. He's a tad disappointed when she doesn't lean up to kiss him, but he understands. She's not comfortable enough to be demonstrative with him when his bully of a brother is standing right there at the ready to make fun of them.

"Yeah, be sure to tell your sister we say hello."

And that's when Daryl's patience finally snaps.

* * *

Maggie answers on the third ring.

"Hello?"

Beth can hear Glenn's voice in the background asking who was on the phone.

"It's me…I need you to come get me."

Without hesitation or any "_I told you so_", Maggie worriedly asks when and where.

"I need you to come and pick me up from the police station."

* * *

Her dad wouldn't so much as look at her for days. He continues to sit out on the front porch like he had the other night when Maggie brought her home, unable to bring himself to even speak to passersby. She can only imagine what he must be thinking of her and Daryl. The call to the Sherriff's office that night had been made only out of concern by a customer that had been there that night to witness the fight between Daryl and Merle. Beth had gotten caught in between when she'd tried to break it up. Their willingness to place the blame on Daryl's shoulders frustrates Beth to no-end. She is perfectly capable of making her own decisions. It's unfortunate, however, that the ones she had taken to making in order to prove this point turned out to be mistakes—ones that the entire county is probably aware of by now.

It's as if by daring to come home at all that night they'd gone camping, or rather the morning that had followed it, Beth had called her Dad out on all of his promises to accept her no matter what and he'd been found lacking…or perhaps not lacking, but certainly in shorter supply than he always had been before. He never even bothered to punish her, as if what she'd done—or rather _who _she'd done it with—was beneath him. Hershel Greene is known in this county as a good man, the standard for which all others will be held up to in comparison. But somehow, his own daughter managed to do what no one had been able to since he'd stopped drinking. She'd upset him to the point where forgiveness which he full heartily agreed with, both in and outside of church, wasn't immediately there within his reach. She has managed to test his patience more than any stunt pulled by her older brother Shawn or even the adventurous Maggie during her own teen years.

Beth silently insists to herself that she is an adult and doesn't have to play the wallflower for their sake. Still, as an _adult_ she shouldn't have risen to Merle's challenge and allowed Daryl to do the same. There's a part of her that's tempted to give in and admit she'd been in the wrong. She probably could have been more considerate by giving fair warning to her family that she wouldn't be coming home that night after Daryl had taken her camping. It was perhaps wrong to leave them worried for her well-being, to expect Maggie to lie for her _again_. Beth's still tempted to hold a grudge against her for not keeping her secret when Beth had done so for her, time and time again. However, she knows full well it would be unfair to do so, when in the same panic-induced situation she likely would have done the same. Glenn is not Daryl, and doesn't have the same reputation chasing at his tail.

She had been the one in the wrong and couldn't lay the blame on Maggie, Daryl or even Merle Dixon.

Beth decided to make her first stop on the apology tour at Maggie's bedroom, as sisterhood might not have precluded secret-keeping but it certainly didn't insist upon so many lies for the sake of selfish reasons. Knocking on Maggie's open bedroom door, she watches her sister scurry about the room getting ready for work as she has so many times before. Maggie's looking in the mirror and applying her mascara, when she eventually catches sight of Beth in the doorway.

Maggie puts down the mascara and picks up a pair of earrings to put them in. "May I help you?"

"I'm mad at you," Beth says.

"I know," Maggie replies without skipping a beat, as Beth enters the small room and takes a seat on the bed. "I'm mad at you too. I have to help clean up the mess your boyfriend and his brother made."

Looking about the room, taking in its appearance, Beth sighs and nods apologetically. She picks at the loose threads of the blanket she sits upon, while she gazes at the laundry that was piled on top of the chair at Maggie's desk, instead of put away in the hamper which was ironically placed in the corner right next to it. It's funny to hear her complaining about cleaning up someone else's mess. Maggie usually stays over at Glenn's apartment these days, but remarkably in the couple nights she does spend here at home, she still manages to make a bigger mess than either Beth or their dad do all week. Beth watches her in the mirror a bit more, applying a light coating of lip-gloss now, before she eventually finds Beth's gaze in the mirror.

She smacks her lips. "How do I look?"

"Ready to face a night of serving drunks with pathetic come-ons."

Maggie fights back a smirk and gives herself a final once-over in the mirror, smoothing her hands over her hair one last time to settle any flyaway strands. Seemingly satisfied she turns, folding her arms in front her, and leans back so that she's resting up against the wardrobe.

"That's funny coming from the girl who's been riding on the back of a Dixon's motorcycle—and on a Dixon."

Beth eyes dart away, shyly. She wants to defend her relationship with Daryl, tell Maggie how things between them aren't how she thinks they are. How he still blushes when he reaches for her hand despite having seen her naked on more than one occasion. She doesn't think Maggie would believe just how respectful Daryl is of her—not that he'd exactly appreciate her sharing that fact, either. The Dixons have always had an image to maintain after all. He wanted the world to see what they saw when they looked at Merle or their father. But Daryl is a horse of different color. He isn't a gentleman in the most conventional sense perhaps, but he is in the ways that really matter. It was that side of him that had prompted him to get into it with Merle last night, coming to her defense. But Maggie didn't get to see that side of him. He seemed to have reserved it for Beth alone. Maggie just saw another thug, the one he tried so desperately to be when the rest of the world—when _Merle_—was watching.

Maggie eyes her and heaves a long sigh.

"I had to tell Daddy, Beth," she says at last, not bothering to continue the dance around the subject, especially when she's in a hurry to leave. "If you could've seen the state he was in that night, you'd understand."

"I do understand," the younger sister argues, "but I'm still mad."

With a shrug, Maggie turns back around and starts searching for her nametag. Beth, knowing immediately what she's looking for, is tempted not to tell her where it is. But even in the midst of her annoyance over how Maggie hadn't kept her secret in the end, it seems a little petty given the trouble Maggie had gone to for her beforehand.

"It's in the car."

"Thanks." Maggie tucks her hair back behind her ears, after having spent a good five minutes fussing with it, ruining her efforts to get it to sit justright. She puts her hands on her hips and looks at Beth intently. "You know…" she says in a more serious tone, "a bird might love a fish, but where in the hell would they live?"

"...Then I guess it's lucky for me he's got wings."

"…Give Dad time, that's what he most likely needs… You and I are going to be fine when _I'm_ done being mad… I'll see you later. Oh, and you owe me for your bail money."

Beth listens to her scurrying out along the hallway, and to her footfalls on the staircase. She feels that same tinge of jealousy once more. She wishes she had a life—a job, a group of friends, and the like to distract herself with. That was partly what had initially drawn her to Daryl. He was so different from the people she was accustomed to, and more like her than either of them had first realized. He's quiet and had been every bit as alone as she had been feeling. He's unguarded and unafraid to hurt her feelings, seeming to trust that she understands him—and she likes to think she does in the ways that truly matter.

Standing up, Beth heads towards the door when she catches sight of something that makes her stop. It's a picture of Maggie and Glenn at the carnival last year, tucked into the frame of the mirror. Beth hadn't been in the mood to go and so stayed home. It hadn't been a planned photo that Maggie and Glenn had posed for, rather it caught them in a private moment when they had been watching their friends playing skeet ball. Glenn had his arm around her waist and Maggie was leaning into him, smiles lighting up both their faces. They looked so comfortable, so naturally happy in that moment and the evidence was printed there for everyone to see. Beth had used to envy them for it, how naturally that look seemed to appear on their faces when they were together. Things between them may have been complicated to some degree but when she was with Daryl, Beth felt so at ease that she wondered if her own face didn't break out into that same look—the same one she had in her eye when she had a guitar in hand or the one Daryl had worn when he'd been teaching her about hunting. And she couldn't help but question whether or not if she and Daryl would ever have a picture taken of them like that. It's unlikely, especially since everyone she knows who can work a camera seems to disapprove of her relationship with him. Besides Daryl Dixon doesn't really seem the type to be willing to have his photo taken outside of a police station—he's too shy, for one.

Exiting the room and going down the stairs to the front door. She watches through the screen as Maggie's blue hatch-backed car pulls out the driveway and listens to the tires screech. For a split second, she wonders to herself if Daryl could fix that because if so, it would surely endear him to Maggie, as every noise that mobile piece of junk has her and any passengers wincing.

She sees her dad sitting there on the porch. He also watches Maggie go and then out of the corner of his eye, he looks at her briefly. Beth, knowing it's time to be a grownup, takes a deep breath and opens the screen door. She steps out onto the porch and moves out to stand in front of his chair, so that they were face to face. Maggie had told her that time was the key, but Beth knew she couldn't go any longer without talking to him.


End file.
